the prodigal’s sister

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F r o m

The Prodigal's Sister 3 8/6/09 11:55 AM

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Piper, John, 1946-The prodigal's sister / John Piper

p. cm.ISBN 1-58134-529-1 (alk. paper)

1. Prodigal son (Parable)--Poetry. 2. Brothers and sisters--Poetry.I.Title.

PS3566.I59P56 2003811'.54--dc21

2003006926

PBI 11 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 03

13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The Prodigal’s SisterText copyright © 2003 by John PiperIllustrations by Robert Doares from Immanuel, God With Us copyright © 1994, Crossway BooksPublished by Crossway Books a division of Good News Publishers1300 Crescent Street,Wheaton, Illinois 60187

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical,photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of thepublisher, except as provided by USA copyright laws.

Design by UDG|DesignWorks, www.udgdesignworks.comFirst printing 2003Printed in Italy


To A l l Wh o E v e r L o v e d a P r o d i g a l


A Word to the Reader • 9

Pa r t O n e

Both His Sons Had Died • 11

Pa r t Tw o

Your Little Girl Can Raise the Dead • 25

Pa r t Th r e e

May I Please Have This Dance? • 43


T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r • 9

A Wo r d t o t h e R e a d e r

rodigal. I don’t know which is harder—to be one or to love one. But I know thatwhen he comes home, there is great joy.

Jesus’ Parable of the Prodigal Son is about Godand how he welcomes sinners who come homethrough Jesus.

Songs and poems and paintings and prayershave been inspired by this story. But I wonder ifanyone has pondered the possibility that besidesthe prodigal and the older brother, there mayhave been a daughter. Jesus doesn’t say how theprodigal “came to himself.” But wouldn’t it bejust like the ways of God to use the weak thingsof the world to shame the strong?

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Hayaneta is the prodigal’s sister. For tenyears she has dreamed about finding her brother.Finally the time has come. It is not safe for abeautiful eighteen-year-old girl in the sinful cityof Noash. But Hayaneta is no ordinary girl.And before her mission is complete, even herolder brother will taste the sway of her courageous love.

John Piper


P a r t O n e

Both His Sons Had Died


T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r • 1 3

he road down from the father’s farmWas empty, like an empty armThat once embraced and then let go,

Or beckoned someone from below.The road runs west and curves its wayThrough miles and miles of wheat, and may,At harvest time, look like a pathThrough paradise, or walls of wrath,Like water heaped on either sideOf Israel, for one, a tideTo save, and for another, slay.At first the slope that leads away,And westward falls, is kind and soft,Then cursed with falling stones, and oftWith wind and rutted steeps. And so,It proves an easy way to go,

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1 4 • J o h n P i p e r

And hard to come.The front porch ofThe mansion, with a roof aboveFor shade, and rocking chairs below,Was planned and built ten years ago,And faces west. And recentlyA ramp was added there to freeThe old man from the steps. His kneesHad gotten bad.

he cedar trees,Spread ’round the house, cast shadows nowAs Hahyaneta kept her vow,

And sat before her father onThe steps, and prayed that dusk or dawnWould bring her brother home.The oldMan watched her from his chair, controlledAnd measured in the mingling ofHis pain and pleasure, with a love,Perhaps, that only fathers know.Her brother Manon long ago

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Gave up these futile seasons (asHe thought) and worked instead. He hadMore fruitful things to do than gazeWith dreamers as the final raysOf light and hope, he said, fade fromThe western sky. His heart was numbAnd cold. And so his father cried,And felt that both his sons had died:The one from play when passions boil,The other from his toxic toil.The one a hundred miles away,The other even while he stay.The one a slave to lust and fools,The other slave to laws and rules.


1 6 • J o h n P i p e r

But Hahyaneta freely cameAnd nightly watched her brother’s nameFall from her father’s silent lipsIn prayer, and saw the way it ripsHis heart, and learned from him the wayTo love.This night her mind would strayBack to the time ten years agoAnd more, when she was eight or so,And, oh, so happy when they playedWith her. Both brothers and the staidOld man, now sitting in his chair,Eyes closed and whispering his prayer,Would lie down in the autumn sheavesAnd she would cover them with leavesAnd cedar straw.Then she would leapAnd clap, as if to wake from sleep,And there would be a great earthquake,And three grown men would rise and shakeAnd shout aloud with arms outspread:“Our little girl can raise the dead.”



And so tonight she pondered this.

At eighteen she still felt the kissOf Níqvah on her cheek, ten yearsAgo, for one last time, and tearsRan down his face when she said, “Níq,Don’t go.” She hugged his waist.Then quick,As if to do it while he could,He turned and ran down through the wood,So he could stop to cry, then fledAlong the empty road that ledDown to the west away from allHis family and home. A callThat no one understood, and he,Perhaps, the least, now seemed to beAll-overpowering. His placeWas bare, nor has she seen his face.


1 8 • J o h n P i p e r

Ten years have turned a little lassInto a woman now. But passAs time may do, some things do not.And Hahyaneta’s heart for whatOne day she planned to do, was justAs sure as on that night she thrustHer little hand into the darkAnd said, “I’ll find you, Níqvah! MarkMy words. Someday I’ll find you deadAnd bring you home alive.”

is headWas lifted now, and eyes were wideTo look once more and see who plied

The road from west to east. At lastShe said, “My father, firm and fast,Like great spikes in a tree, your loveFor Níqvah strengthens me aboveMy every other love, save yours,And year by year this love endures.

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And now I am eighteen, and askYour blessing on the only taskThat I have dreamed and planned for allThese years that Níq, since I was small,Has been away. I want to goAnd find him where he is, and showHim he can still come home.”


e closedHis weak’ning eyes as if he dozed,Then said, “Just like your mother spoke,

You speak. She would be pleased to stokeYour fire and send you on your wayWith iron shield and sword to slayWhatever dragons lay twixt youAnd exploits that you aim to do.”He smiled. “But, Hahya, she is gone,You know. All dragons slain but one:The fever. She fought well and lost,

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And now, my daughter, is the costOf having Níqvah, losing you?It is not safe for girls to doSuch things, or go where Níqvah lives.I’ve been there many times. It givesMy heart a shudder just to thinkOf how they lust and what they drinkAnd what they say to girls and do.Níqvah is not the boy that youRemember, Hahyaneta. He’sChanged.” “Father, I know all of theseUnpleasant things. It’s plain to meThat he has changed. But so have we.Ten years of prayer were not in vain.And I believe some things remainFrom all you’ve taught, a tender tug,And that he still can feel the hugI gave him when he pulled awayJust like I feel his kiss today.


2 2 • J o h n P i p e r

And, Father, most of all, you taughtMe there’s a Pow’r in love that naughtCan thwart, and that it moves where truthAnd courage speak, and neither youthNor age can hinder its success,But only fear and quietness.My mother died when I was sixAnd I still see today the sticksShe broke and said, ‘See that! Just soGod breaks the back of ev’ry foeTo bring his children home.’ I thinkThat she would let me go.” “A blink,My daughter, in a blink she wouldHave let you go.” “And you? I couldNot well succeed without your handOf blessing on my head.” He scannedThe darkening west and empty roadAnd fields, and wondered what they bodeNow for his little girl; then raisedHis trembling, empty arm and praised


The grace and courage in her heart,And did then, in these words, impartA blessing, with his right hand laidNow gently on her head: “Invade,My valiant daughter, darkness now,And I will keep our common vowHere in this place until you comeAgain, and may you bring me someGood news beyond the gift of men,That both my boys may live again.”


2 4 • J o h n P i p e r

A C a l l

O weary soul, with waiting spent,Cease not to hope, nor cries relent.

And when the months stretch into yearsAnd decades gather up the tears,Know this, a little girl—or, itMay be, a boy—is being knit,

All by design, in someone’s wombTo breathe against the evening gloom,

And then become, in ways that youHave never dreamed, nor ever knew,A light within your dark’ning sky,

And answer to your deepest cry.


P a r t Tw o

Your Little Girl Can Raise

the Dead



he old man leaned against the beamBeside his ramp, and watched a dreamUnfold before his weakened eyes,

And prayed that Hahyaneta’s prizeWould be her brother’s life. He raisedHis empty arm and smiled, amazedThat ten years had not broken theResolve and hope in her that sheWould be the way her brother wouldCome home. He waved once more, and stoodThere on the porch, and watched her takeThe final turn from sight, and makeHer lonely way toward Noash onThe coast. He thought, “Your mother’s brawnAnd beauty mingle well in you,My child. I know what she would do,

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2 8 • J o h n P i p e r

If she were here. She’d look at meAnd say, ‘It’s time to eat.’Then sheWould go inside to spread the mealAnd wait for news that Hahya’s heelHad crushed the serpent’s head of liesAnd freed her son to be the prizeOf Hahyaneta’s quest.”

he oldMan lingered. Better than he told,Or wished to tell, he knew the way

To Noash, and the town.The dayWould not go down until some knaveWould hurl a slur against his braveAnd tender girl.The road that leadsTo Noash is a trap, but breeds,Against its gluttony and lure,A grief and anguish in the pure.

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Five days she walked, and slept at nightIn synagogues, or in the sightOf one, if rabbis were unsureThat she was scrupulous.The poorWould take her in and make a place;And she would say at dawn: “May graceAbound to you, and would you prayThat very soon my brother mayReceive me in the way you did.”And then she ventured on and bidThem all farewell, until she cameTo Noash by the sea.


3 0 • J o h n P i p e r

he flameAbove the curving rim of blueAnd rolling waves fell blazing through

The evening haze, and boiled with blood-Red spray, it seemed, and sent a floodOf molten crimson flowing forthOn the horizon to the northAnd south. She climbed a hill outsideThe town so she could watch, and triedTo put herself in Níqvah’s place,And thought: “I wonder if his faceIs ever set to climb this hill,And watch the west, and feel the thrillOf what I see: An image ofThe heritage our father’s loveBequeaths to us in endless seas

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Of golden grain that roll like theseGreat waves, and blaze with fire like themIn beauty, but do not condemnThe seamen who embark and failBut only those who will not sail.”She wondered, as the sun went down,Where she should stay the night: in town,Or on a nearby farm? And asShe prayed, she thought, “My father hasA lot of rooms and loves to share.Perhaps there is a farm somewhereNearby with rooms and with a heartLike his.” She raised her head, and partWay up the hill along the roadAn old man with a crooked goadAnd scrawny goat walked slowly fromThe field, and as he sang a psalm,Made his way home. His face was thinAnd on his neck there was more skinThan there was meat to fill. She knewThe song. It made her tremble through


3 2 • J o h n P i p e r

The twilight—and rejoice.The manMust be some distant kin and clanTo know this song. And yet it didNot bode well for her brother’s bidTo live, if wealth had taken wing.Just barely could she hear him sing:

“When the staff is broken,*

And in judgment spokenRighteousness is heard,Think not God is silent,

Though the famine violent,This is but His word.

He stands not to give account.It is we who must before Him.

Come, let us adore Him!”

* The song is to the tune of “Jesus Priceless Treasure.”



“Excuse me sir, I’m looking forA place to stay, a simple floor,Or porch. I have a blanket ofMy own. Perhaps a roof aboveMy head, that’s all.”The old man gazedA long time.Then he said, “Amazed;I am amazed. He said I’d seeAnd be amazed.” “Who said you’d beAmazed? At what?” “Your father saidI’d be amazed.Well, shake my head!I truly am amazed! You lookJust like them.” “Like who?” Her voice shook.“Your father and your brother.There,The chin, the cheek, the nose, the hair.Amazing.” “Sir, which brother doYou mean?” “I mean the one that youHave come to find, Níqvah.” “You knowMy brother’s name?” “And yours, althoughYou don’t know me.Your given nameIs Hahyaneta. And your fameHas come before you. He told me


3 4 • J o h n P i p e r

For years that one day I would seeYou on the road to Noash. InYour blood, he said. It’s more than skinThat knits you to your mother and,I add, your father.” “Sir, I standBefore a man I do not know,And yet who knows me well. Please showMe who you are, and take me toMy brother.”

ome, let’s walk. I knewYour father years ago when heFirst came to seek his son and see

If he could take him home.The ladRefused, and so your Father badeMe keep an eye on him, and gaveMe money. ‘Keep him from the grave,’He said. And so for ten years IHave seen your father come and try,Time after time, to show the boy

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That there is hope and far more joyAt home than in this place. I knowYour father very well.” “I oweYou much, kind sir.Tell me, how longHas famine reigned? I heard the song.Does Níqvah have enough to pay?”“The boy eats carob pods to stayAlive. He steals them from the pigs,And sometimes gathers flint and twigsFor pennies and a place to stay.”“Do you know where he is today?”The old man pointed to a shedWith three sides. “There, he makes his bed,With bats, and sleeps on gathered leaves.


His daily rent: to keep the thievesAway and feed the swine. I’ll waitHere if you like.” “You’ve been a greatHelp, sir, but you don’t need to stay.I’ll be all right.Thank you, and mayMy father trouble you no more.Come visit us. My father’s doorIs always open.” “Fare thee well,Young lass. It was no trouble.TellYour father I will come someday.”



She walked down toward the shed. He layThere on the leaves as still as death.She wondered, as she watched, if breathStill came. His eyes were closed. His cheekWas dark and hollow, and the reekWas foul. His fingernails were cakedWith dirt, and streaks of black soil snakedAcross his rutted brow. His hairHad not been washed for months. And thereWere no shoes anywhere. His feetWere bare, his ragged cloak repleteWith eaten holes. And in his sleepHe gripped a pouch he used to keepThe parchments that his father sent.She kneeled beside his head and bentDown over him and kissed his cheek.Incredibly there was no shriekOr sudden jerk. He stared intoThe face of Hahyaneta. “WhoAre you?” he said, and sat up inHis leaves. “Hi, Níq.You’ve gotten thin.”


3 8 • J o h n P i p e r

No one had called him Níq for years,Except his dad. He saw the tearsPool in her eyes. And then she said,“Your little girl can raise the dead.”His mouth fell open. “Hahya?” “Yes,I said I’d come, no more no less,And bring you home, alive.” “The lastTime I saw you, you hadn’t passedFour feet.You must be eighteen now.”He pushed the hair back from her brow.“It’s really you. Did you come byYourself?” “Yes.” “Why? You want to die?This city is a pit. It blindsThe young with dazzling names, then bindsAnd swallows them alive.” “I’m here,To bring you home,” she said, “it’s clearYou don’t belong.” “As clear as mud.Look, Hahya, you don’t know the crudInside.You don’t know who I am.”“Hear this, my brother, I do damnThose words and call them lies. It’s you


Who don’t know who you are. It’s trueThere is a mystery.What makesYou think the dazzled dupes and fakesOf Noash can declare the trueAnd wonderful design of whoYou are? One knows, and only one,Who Níqvah is. And when you’re doneWith dabbling in the darkness here –All dazzling as it is—the clear,Bright air of eastern skies will bringYou home to him. And I will sing.Awake, O sleeper, from the grave,You are a son and not a slave.”


4 0 • J o h n P i p e r

They sat in silence for a longLong time. He was amazed how strongThis little girl of eight had grown.And then she changed her look and tone:“He built a porch just after youHad left. It faces west.We knewWhat it was for. He’ll be there, Níq.And will not quench a smoldering wick.Come home with me. Even tonight.I have some bread, the moon is bright.It’s cooler in the dark, and weCan sleep by day. Please, come with me.”And quietly the fetters andThe folly fell. She took his hand,And where he had before said NoA hundred times, he said, “Let’s go.”



A C a l l

Come, flick’ring hope, and carry fire;From this my story and desire,

Ignite your smold’ring wick, and makeYour candle blaze.And may Christ take

This happy flame and with it burnUp ev’ry hopeless word, and turnThe fatal dream of false despairInto the bright and living air

That blows down from the Father’s farm.And may you feel the mighty arm

Of God lift you into the lightOf Truth, and put an end to night.We do not know ourselves arightUntil we have the Father’s light.

We think we know ourselves and groan,Until we know as we are known.


P a r t T h r e e

May I Please Have This Dance?



our nights they walked, and slept by day.Beneath the carob branches layThe daughter fast asleep from hard

And weary nights; and keeping guardBeside her, lay the prodigal,His moving lips inaudible,Still restless and awake, transfixedOn bloody bark and branches twixtThe earth and sky, where traitors usedTo hang with common thieves accusedOf treason toward their sovereign kingAnd, in the act, of plunderingHis wealth.

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he lips of Níqvah spokeA wordless speech: “O, Father, cloakThis worse-than-naked son with rags,

And feed me from the garbage bags,And let me live with slaves, for IHave treated you with scorn, and myContempt was worse than all the blameThat stained this bloody tree with shame,Which now, with life and leaves arrayed,Spreads out and covers me with shade.I do not ask to sit with kings,But only shade beneath your wings.”

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And so the prodigal rehearsedHis speech and waited for the firstSigns of his sister’s wakening.Mid afternoon she stirred. “I’ll bringYou water, if you like,” he said.“I’d like that, Níqvah. All the breadIs gone, you know.” “I know. Let’s tryTo make it home tonight.The skyLooks happy to the west. I thinkWe’ll make it. I’ll go get your drink.”When he returned, the packs were rolledAnd Hahyaneta said, “I toldYour brother you would come.” “What didHe say?” But Hahyaneta hidHer face as they began to walk,And didn’t answer him. “Some talkOf pain is good, you know.” “I know.He said he didn’t care. ‘Just goAnd waste your breath,’ he said.” The tearsRolled down her cheeks. “How many yearsHas Manon felt that way?” he asked.


4 8 • J o h n P i p e r

“Unless he’s keeping something masked,He never cared.” “I’m not surprised.He never wrote.To be despisedIs sometimes good for us. I don’tDeserve his pity, and I won’tDemand his love.The way I spurnedOur Father surely has well earnedFor me whatever Manon feels.How great his love must be that reelsWith hate so long! Perhaps, if heBelieved that I have come to seeHow precious is our Father’s careAnd how unspeakable and rareHis heart, and noble is his mind,Then, maybe, there would be a kindOf softening of Manon towardMy soul.” “I wish for such reward,My brother, but I fear the wrathOf Manon grows along a pathFar diff’rent from the one you hope.Oh, that his anger were the scope


And measure of his love for allThat our great Father is. But gallAnd bitterness are not born fromThe thrall of mercy nor do comeFrom treasuring the fountain ofDelight we call our Father’s love.There is another stream that feedsThe bitterness of his good deeds.”


5 0 • J o h n P i p e r

Now as the evening came and theyBegan to climb the rugged wayThat leads up to the great Plateau,All conversation ceased. Below,And now behind these two, ten yearsOf emptiness burst, to the cheersOf every waving stalk of grain,A bubble in the wind, and feignThe beauty it possessed beforeIt broke. His back now to the shoreBeyond the western rim, the sonStood trembling on the road—the oneWhere he had run the other way,As though it were but yesterday.Before him lay what seemed a seaOf endless gold.What enemy,He thought, could make a boy believeThat any distant world could weaveA better beauty than this place?Then suddenly he said, “My face,My hair! I’m filthy, Hahya. Look



At me!” She smiled at him and tookA long, deep breath, and said, “Let’s go.”

The old man’s chair rocked to and fro.His lips moved silently as thoughHe sang some favorite psalm.The glowOf golden red and crimson raysHad set the western fields ablaze,As if some cosmic cause were foundFor merry-making. But no soundWas heard except the rhythm ofThe rocking chair. And then, aboveThe rail, the old man saw two shapes,And stopped. He thought, “I know the capesThat Hahyaneta wears.” He tookThe rail and stood so he could look.


And then he saw her lift her handThe way she always did, then stand,And let the other shape go on.He knew. For all his soul was drawn,And there was no resisting this.He left his cane, and, lest he missA step, he jumped them all, and ran,Forgetting that he was a manOf dignity, and that his kneesWere bad. He often thought, with easeSomeday I’ll run on these, and more.Is this not what they’re ruined for?



He stopped just long enough to seeHis eyes and take a breath.Then heEmbraced the boy, and pressed his faceAgainst the foul and crusty placeHe used to kiss the lad goodnight,And pushed his fingers through the tightAnd matted hair; and there with plainAnd heaving sobs, released the painBuilt up four thousand nights. And then,The weeping son said, “Father, canPerhaps, you make a slave of me,For I have sinned and cannot beYour son?”To which the great old manReplied, “I have a different plan.”And then, to servants gathered by,He said, “Bring me the ring, and myBest robe, and leather shoes. And takeThe fire and fatted calf, and make


For us the finest feast that weHave ever made. For this, you see,My dead son is alive and sound;He once was lost, but now is found.”And so the common labor ceased,And ev’ry hand prepared the feast.The colors flew at ev’ry gate!And they began to celebrate.



As usual, Manon was inThe field and working late. He’d beenThere since the crack of dawn and workedAll day. “Let duty not be shirked,”He liked to say, and took some prideIn his long hours, and liked to chideThe servants, that he could out-serveThem ev’ry day, and out-deserveThem all. He heard the music fromThe house and saw the servants comeOut dancing on the lawn. His firstResponse to songs and joy: a burstOf anger: this is not the wayTo serve their Lord! What holidayHave they declared to frolic likeA carefree child? If I must strikeThem, then I will, to see that theyLearn how to serve and to obey.


“What’s all this racket here?” He snapped.A servant overflowed and clapped,“He’s back! He’s back! Níqvah is back!”He frowned, “And in the prison shackWith other thieves, may I suppose?”“Oh, no, Sir Manon! Master choseThe fattest calf and killed it forA feast, and said, ‘Bring wine and pourA goblet for my son, and letAll work be put aside and getMy ring and finest robe with joy,And put them on my living boy.’”



The older son was stunned and stoodThere by the fence he’d made, and wouldNot enter.Then his Father sawHim by the fence, and went to drawHim in. “Your brother’s home. Come seeHim, Manny. He has changed.You’ll beAmazed.” “I’ll tell you, Father, whatAmazes me: that he can strutHere like an honored guest althoughHe took your hard-earned cash to throwIt down the sewers of Noash,And let you subsidize his brashAnd wicked reveling with whores.And made you weep behind those doorsFor ten years while I slaved to makeA profit on this place. So takeYour pick, my Lord, the wicked oneIn there, or me, the working son.”


5 8 • J o h n P i p e r

“I’d like to think that all these yearsYou have enjoyed the place. It searsThe soul, Manon, to take your rageTo bed night after night.You wageA war against your self. BewareOf other mistresses whose snareIs just as deadly as the kindYour brother sought. Oh, be not blind,My son. All that I have is yours,And free. For all time it endures.But if what you desire is pay,Bequests will never come that way.Come join me at the table, son,The labors of the day are done.”

But Manon stood there like a stone,And sent his Father back alone.The girl was watching from the door,And as her Father passed, “Once more,Perhaps,” he took her hand and said,“Our little girl can raise the dead.”


She turned and saw the shining faceOf Níqvah laughing in the graceOf life, then through the evening shadeBeyond the fence that Manon made,She walked.


6 0 • J o h n P i p e r

is face was streaked where sweatRan through the pollen dust, and metHis tangled beard.The garments that

He wore for working stank. And atThe middle of his fingers thereWere blisters on both hands. DespairSeemed written on his frozen face.“In vain,” he thought. “He said the raceAnd pace were all in vain.The hours,The years, the sweat, the plans, my pow’rs—For naught. Bequests don’t come that way.”Then Hahyaneta kissed the grayAnd brownish coating on his cheek,And said, “Hi, Manny.You look weak.Can I get you a drink?” He shookHis head, “No thanks.” “Manon, it took

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Your breath away, what Father said.I think I understand.The dreadYou feel right now—that all your sweatHas been in vain—it’s true. And yetIt is a gift to know bequestsAre free, and loaded treasure chestsOf grace, all hidden in the ground,Are never earned, but only found.And dancing doesn’t come that way,And happy parties are not pay.Day labor is of no avail,The gift of joy is not for sale.You’ve labored hard to shun what’s badAnd now it’s hard to just be glad.


6 2 • J o h n P i p e r

But, Manny, look.Your Father andThe servants and your brother standInside the door and bid you come.And listen to the children drum!”She took his hand: “Come, all is well.”And thus the fetters broke and fell.He waked as from a life-long trance,And said, “May I please have this dance?”



A CallAnd now, O Christ, let there be light

So we can see the way arightBetween two dismal forms of death,

And with that light, O give us breathTo live again, and bring us back

From pleasures in a foreign shack,Or from the pride of weary arm,

While working on the Father’s farm.From demon sloth and pleasures raw,

Or demon toil and pride of law.The pathway home from either place

Is opened by the word of grace.O Christ, pursue us till we see

That all of God’s bequests are free.The ticket that we have to showIs this: that we are glad to go.


the prodigal’s sister

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