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.
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