Most Prodigal

It’s been long since I knocked your door. Too long I dread to trace your steps For fear I’d sure misplace my tread. But now it’s cold, I have no choice, Your door conceals the warmth of home. I do return, most prodigal, To your way of peace that I shunned. The ways of Gog are wild, Vile are the sons of Maggog. I try my best to keep me clean, Tho’ filth invades my vocal cords And wicked thoughts impede my mind. I try not to, but what can I, Mortal man with a fragile heart Prone to melt ‘fore Satan’s flames And breed desires of the flesh? No favours do I reclaim, For foolishness itself grew Where wisdom’s bones laid buried. Now I’m weary, frosty and cold, And with feet gullied, I trudge, ashamed, Wishing to find your door, And hoping too that in your love, From your undeserved mercies I’d gain.