The prodigal returned, a day ago,
With meek exhaustion; darkened, hollowed eyes.
His tail between his legs, his head hung low,
He realized his fault, resolved to try.
He bore the scathing anger in your face,
Humiliated, totally reduced,
To something less than dirt, to filth, debased.
He bore it all, the guilt of the accused.
And is this not enough, for you, a God?
This man has been through hell, and back again.
And now you find him begging for a nod,
A sign of grace, or love—yet you refrain.
Can you expect a change, in anger fraught?
This mortal man would be what you are not.