Being our Father’s children

Seems to be the hardest thing for us to be.

We would rather eat pig’s slop

On our own “adventure”

Than sit and dine

In our Father’s house.

So hellbent on our own way

So sure that He doesn’t have

Our best interests at heart,

That we would go out of our way

To fend for ourselves,

Spending our nights sleeping on concrete

And newspaper of our own making,

Rather than lie in an exquisitely comfortable bed

Under His roof.

We are stubborn


Hard headed and deeply

Committed to our own destruction.

But His patience is tenacious

His love is ferocious

His decision to love us is


His eye is always on the horizon

Looking out for those that would come home,

His commitment to us

The most enduring thing about our brief existence.

This Father of ours

Ultimately opened His own veins

That his rebel children

Might be reconciled with Him-

It would take nothing less

To bring the prodigals home.

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