Hymn/Song Information

THE PRODIGAL

Thankless—the Prodigal receives
The bounty of his Sire,
Rejoicing only in the hope
To have his own desire.

And far from home, in climes of vice,
He joins the heedless throng;
Begins in pleasure to rejoice.
And chants the mirthful song.

But lo, the famine coming on.
Now dies the song profane;—
The youth beholds his substance gone,
And begs the husk in vain.

The terrors of the world to come
Have struck his pleasures dead —
And far from God — and far from home,
His every friend has fled.

II
The Prodigal, with streaming eyes,
From folly just awake,
Reviews his wand'rings with surprise;
His heart begins to break.

I starve, he cries, nor can I bear
The famine in this land;
While servants of my Father share
The bounty of his hand.

With deep repentance I'll return
And seek my Father's face;
Unworthy to be call'd a son,
I'll ask a servant's place,

Far off, He saw him slowly move.
In pensive silence mourn;
The Father ran with arms of love
To welcome his return.

Thro' all the courts the tidings flew,
And spread the joy around;
The angels tun'd their harps anew;
The Prodigal is found!

III
My soul!—thy hasty censure spare,
Repress the bitter tone—
Forbear thy brother's faults to judge,-—
And watchful, scan thy own.

Hast thou th' unwearied gifts of heaven
Beheld with thoughtless pride?
Ungratefully their blessings shar'd,
Or madly misapply'd? —

In the "far country" of thy sin.
Hast thou perceived with pain.
The evils of thy wayward course,
And sought thy God again?

And was thy penitence receiv'd,
And was the rebel lov'd?—
Then, with the Prodigal, adore
The mercy thou hast prov'd.