13-25 The wretched prodigal behold
in mis’ry lying low,
Whom vice had sunk from high estate,
and plung’d in want and woe.
2 While 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:
3 I’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.
4 He said, and hasten’d to his home,
to seek his father’s love:
The father sees him from afar,
and all his bowels move.
5 He ran, and fell upon his neck,
embrac’d and kiss’d his son:
The grieving prodigal bewail’d
the follies he had done.
6 No more, my father, can I hope
to find paternal grace;
My utmost wish is to obtain
a servant’s humble place.
7 Bring forth the fairest robe for him,
the joyful father said;
To him each mark of grace be shown,
and ev’ry honour paid.
8 A day of feasting I ordain;
let mirth and song abound:
My son was dead, and lives again!
was lost, and now is found!
9 Thus joy abounds in paradise
among the hosts of heav’n,
Soon as the sinner quits his sins,
repents, and is forgiv’n.
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