Songs 40

¹The wretched prodigal behold

in mis’ry lying low,

Whom vice had sunk from high estate,

and plung’d in want and woe.

²While I, despis’d and scorn’d, he cries,

starve in a foreign land,

The meanest in my father’s house

is fed with bounteous hand:

³I’ll go, and with a mourning voice,

fall down before his face:

Father! I’ve sinn’d ’gainst Heav’n and thee,

nor can deserve thy grace.

⁴He said, and hasten’d to his home,

to seek his father’s love:

The father sees him from afar,

and all his bowels move.

⁵He ran, and fell upon his neck,

embrac’d and kiss’d his son:

The grieving prodigal bewail’d

the follies he had done.

⁶No more, my father, can I hope

to find paternal grace;

My utmost wish is to obtain

a servant’s humble place.

⁷Bring forth the fairest robe for him,

the joyful father said;

To him each mark of grace be shown,

and ev’ry honour paid.

⁸A day of feasting I ordain;

let mirth and song abound:

My son was dead, and lives again!

was lost, and now is found!

⁹Thus joy abounds in paradise

among the hosts of heav’n,

Soon as the sinner quits his sins,

repents, and is forgiv’n.