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The Prodigal
Where hast thou been my brother? thou art torn,But scarce the rags conceal thy naked soul;
Thou art from desert still to desert borne,
Nor yet has learned love's yielding, soft controul;
Come, let me o'er thee cast this garment white,
Strip off the filthy rags the world has given;
The son has sent me, that I may invite
The weary to his marriage feast in heaven;
Oh come, for there is all thou want'st prepared,
The flowing bowl that cannot ever dry,
The bread of life with him who died is shared;
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And wander on in thorny paths to bleed,
And on the husks thou feedest ever feed.
Poem No. 804; fall 1838–summer 1839
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