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.