Prodigals, Brothers, and Fathers

 

Sometimes we're the prodigal, longing for respite,
Seeking and never finding, wandering through the night
In the hopes that we'll come upon a place to rest our weary flesh
Found by a gracious father, ringed, feasted, and dressed
In finery that reminds us of our shame.
We rest on the shoulder of a father who never forgot our name. 

Sometimes we're the older brother, grudgingly compliant.
Lacking in love, but never rude or defiant
Until we see the love our father has for the undeserving
And fly into a rage, finding it unnerving
That grace would permit sinners like them
To come and drink, filling their cups beyond the brim. 

Hopefully someday we can learn to be like the father.  
Eyes on the horizon, longing for the ones who couldn't bother
To treat us with compassion before they can grovel,
Handing out mansions when asked for a hovel. 
Oh, that we all could live with such grace!
Longing for the day that we'll see him face to face. 

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