The wretched prodigal behold

in mis’ry lying low,

Whom vice had sunk from high estate,

and plunged in want and woe.

While I, despised and scorned, he cries,

starve in a foreign land,

The meanest in my father’s house

is fed with bounteous hand:

I’ll go, and with a mourning voice,

fall down before his face:

Father! I’ve sinned ‘gainst Heav’n and thee,

nor can deserve thy grace.

He said, and hastened to his home,

to seek his father’s love;

The father sees him from afar,

and all his bowels move.

He ran, and fell upon his neck,

embraced and kissed his son:

The grieving prodigal bewailed

the follies he had done.

No more, my father, can I hope

to find paternal grace;

My utmost wish is to obtain

a servant’s humble place.

Bring forth the fairest robe for him,

the joyful father said;

To him each mark of grace be shown,

and ev’ry honour paid.

A day of feasting I ordain;

let mirth and song abound:

My son was dead, and lives again!

was lost, and now is found!

Thus joy abounds in paradise

among the hosts of heav’n,

Soon as the sinner quits his sins,

repents, and is forgiv’n.