And so shall we all arise
    In the joy of a soul’s re-birth
  To hold a communion with the skies
    That shall bring down Heaven to earth.

THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN

(From the Scotch Gaelic)

  Tedious grew the time to me
    Within the Courts of Blessing;
  My secure felicity,
    For folly I forswore;
  Vain delusion wrought my woe
    Till now, in want distressing,
  I go begging to and fro
    Upon an alien shore.

  In my dear old home of peace,
    Around my father’s table
  Many a servant sits at ease
    And eats and drinks his fill;
  While within a filthy stall
    With loathsome swine I stable,
  Sin-defiled and scorned of all
    To starve on husk and swill.

  Ah, how well I mind me
    Of the happy days gone over! 
  Love was then behind me,
    Before me, and around;
  Then, light as air, I leapt,
    A laughing little rover,
  Now dull and heavy-stepped
    I pace this desert ground.

  Sin with flattering offers came;
    Against my Sire rebelling
  I yielded my good name
    At the Tempter’s easy smile;
  In fields that were not ours,
    Brighter blooming, richer smelling,
  I ravished virgin flowers
    With a heart full of guile.

  ’Twas thus an open shame
    In the sight of all the Noble,
  Yea! a monster I became,
    Till my gold ceased to flow,
  And my fine fair-weather friends
    Turned their backs upon my trouble. 
  Now an outcast to Earth’s ends
    Under misery I go.

  Yet though bitter my disgrace,
    Than every ill severer
  Is the thought of the face
    Of the Sire for whom I long. 
  I shall see Him no more
    Though to me he now is dearer
  Than he ever was, before
    I wrought him such wrong.

  And yet ere I die
    I will journey forth to meet him. 
  Home I will hie,
    For he yet may be won. 
  For Pardon and Peace
    My soul will entreat him,
  “Father, have grace
    On thy Prodigal Son!”

  Could I get near enough
    To send him a message—­
  I keeping far off—­
    He would not say me nay. 
  In some little nook
    He would find me a living
  And let none be driving
    His shamed son away.

  The Penitent arose,
    His scalding tears blinding him;
  Hope’s ray lit his way
    As homeward he pressed. 
  Afar off his father’s
    Fond eyes are finding him,
  And the old man gathers
    His boy to his breast.

ST. MARY MAGDALEN

  They who have loved the most
    The most have been forgiven,
  And with the Devil’s host
    Most mightily have striven. 
  And so it was of old
    With her, once all unclean,
  Now of the saints white-stoled—­
    Mary, the Magdalen. 
  For though in Satan’s power
    She seemed for ever fast,
  Her Saviour in one hour
    Seven devils from her cast.