Prodigal

Oh hearts, prone to wander.
Losing sight, losing ground, growing numb.
Weary wanderers in foreign land.
Held by grace and yet...
These tears become streams in the desert.
Thirsting Lips.  Chapped Lives.
Reaching our feet out for some cleft in the Rock.
Arms pulling so we can climb high.
Instead of eating with the pigs.  
Get us out of this life sty.
And into the arms of Father.
Let us get to His house.
Where He clothes us in His righteousness.
And puts His ring of grace 'round our fingers.
God's Riches At Christ's Expense.
Help us to find home.
So we can finally stop living like this.

All Prodigals,

Bernadette