He came back alone. In defeat, Heavy-footed through grasses, slow. All that lately seemed like a dream so sweet… He was going to his father. He'd lost the foe. But on the far bank, aching with pain, Where anchors of hope had taken root deep, In the father's afflicted heart, hope's flame Of faith and of love burned bright in its keep. One more glance toward the distant sorrow… Someone comes from the Judean low. Weeping sorrow in a frame worn and hollow, A tender wave in the soul: surely—my son below! The gates creaked anxiously open. The father still has strength left to run… All battered, barefoot, and broken, But—my son! At last, O my son! Knees bent down in prayer's devotion. Barely heard: "Father, I've sinned…" "I receive you, my son, your contrition. Do you hear the song of my soul within?" And on the son's shoulders, bent and grown weary, The father's hands… forgiveness' moment of grace. Two souls embraced, winged and airy, Happiness trembles over their place.
