Explore "A Prodigal Son" by Christina Georgina Rossetti on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Does that lamp still burn in my Father's house, / Which he kindled the night I went away? / I turned once beneath the cedar boughs, / And marked it gleam with a golden ray; / Did he think to light me home some day?
Hungry here with the crunching swine, / Hungry harvest have I to reap; / In a dream I count my Father's kine, / I hear the tinkling bells of his sheep, / I watch his lambs that browse and leap.
There is plenty of bread at home, / His servants have bread enough and to spare; / The purple wine-fat froths with foam, / Oil and spices make sweet the air, / While I perish hungry and bare.
Rich and blessed those servants, rather / Than I who see not my Father's face! / I will arise and go to my Father: -- / "Fallen from sonship, beggared of grace, / Grant me, Father, a servant's place. "