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."