In the inky backdrop,
The stars sprinkled and shimmered.
From the open hayfields,
The narcissist watched the scintillation
And failed to see the Hand
That wrought them all.
But, alas, in the eager search
For the urban fleshpots,
He left the rural land
And squandered his self and worth
As nights of revelry spilled into dawns;
Bleary-eyed and unfocused,
He did not see the starry night
In the never-sleeping city lights.
There were no stars for him
In the midnight skies.
The man-made lamps and lanterns
Faked light and shrouded starlight,
He failed again to see the Hand
That made the stars for all.
Beaten and downcast,
Totally spent, he left the city-
Bedraggled and beggarly-
In tattered rags, his hesitant steps
Carried him to his father’s gate in the country.
Doubtful of welcome and greeting,
He yearned at least for a meal.
Yet father, waiting for the son-bereft of hope-
Saw his child through tears
And recognized the child who came back.
With quickened steps and outstretched arms,
He ran out and hugged
His emaciated child in dirt and rags
And wept tears of joy
At the return of one who was deemed dead.
The fatted calf was killed
And mourning turned festive
When guests lolled in abandon.
The Prodigal walked into the open
And gazed at the shimmering starry night.
He saw the Hand that made them all!