Behold the wretch whose lust and wine
Had wast­ed his es­tate,
He begs a share among the swine,
To taste the husks they eat!

I die with hun­ger here, he cries,
“I starve in fo­reign lands;
My fa­ther’s house has large sup­plies,
And boun­te­ous are his hands.

I’ll go, and with a mourn­ful tongue
Fall down be­fore his face—
Father, I’ve done thy jus­tice wrong,
Nor can de­serve thy grace.

He said, and haste­ned to his home,
To seek his fa­ther’s love;
The fa­ther saw the re­bel come,
And all his bow­els move.

He ran, and fell up­on his neck,
Embraced and kissed his son;
The re­bel’s heart with sor­row brake
For fol­lies he had done.

Take off his clothes of shame and sin,
The fa­ther gives com­mand,
“Dress him in gar­ments white and clean,
With rings adorn his hand.

A day of feast­ing I or­dain,
Let mirth and joy abound;
My son was dead, and lives again,
Was lost, and now is found.