Muck of the sty, reek of the trough, <br />Blackened my brow where all might see, <br />Yet while I was a great way off <br />My Father ran with compassion for me. <br />He put on my hand a ring of gold, <br />(There's no escape from a ring, they say) <br />He put on my neck a chain to hold <br />My passionate spirit from breaking away. <br />He put on my feet the shoes that miss <br />No chance to tread in the narrow path; <br />He pressed on my lips the burning kiss <br />That scorches deeper than fires of wrath. <br />He filled my body with meat and wine, <br />He flooded my heart with love's white light; <br />Yet deep in the mire, with sensual swine, <br />I long–God help me!–to wallow to-night. <br />Muck of the sty, reek of the trough, <br />Blacken my soul where none may see. <br />Father, I yet am a long way off– <br />Come quickly, Lord! Have compassion on me!<br /><br />Ethelwyn Wetherald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/prodigal-yet/
