One of America's Best-Known Christian Writers Paints a Graphic Word-Picture of the Prodigal Son A lonely, d re a ry -h e a r te d young man, ragged, hungry and home sick sits dejectedly in the shade of valved seed pods, the husks that the swine did eat. Today he had hun gered so, had been glad to eat even this despised food, the food of the despised hogs.
tered, sweat-bedraggled, soiled—oh, there had been many new friends, so many who had wanted to help him spend—drinking, laughing at God’s laws of sowing and reaping, women of the street who had plied their wares so subtly. Ribald and raucous parties, mid night debaucheries, scenes of lewd ness, gluttonous banquetings, un seemly conversations—and the lonely nights and early morning hours that followed, heartache and revulsion Be cause of the sobbing of his sin-be smirched conscience. Hours, when he had lain upon his pillow and stared out into the purple shadows pf the tropical nights, and remembered. Would conscience never cease to torment him, crying to him from the lips of every new wound stabbed by committed sin: Stop, young fool. Stop. You cannot trifle with God’s laws. Some day you will pay . . . some day. . .Y ou are paying now. But he had not stopped until he had been stopped —not until now. Again, the young man sighs, stands, reaches up, tears a long 10-inch carob- pod from the 30-foot-high tree, kicks at a grunting, despicable hungry hog
the tree. His tired eyes look away for a moment out across the hot, pas tureless fields. As far as the eye can. see, there is only dismal waste, dancing heat waves and barren, dry, famine-smit ten land. And yonder, far— very far —away, over the hills, through the valleys is another land, where the fields are aflame with fruit and grain and where— oh yonder, so far—is home, and Father and Mother wait ing. A table will be set there today with food and plenty, and even the hired servants will have sufficient. A heavy sigh escapes the young man’s parched lips. The grunting of the despised pigs rooting in the dry soil about him, complaining because of the lack of edible roots or acorns or other délectables, vacuums his thoughts back to the barren scene -«bout him. Here in the shade of the old carob tree— even here it is hot and depressing, while the hot winds rustle the branches and rattle the long ten-inch pods hanging sparsely upon the tree— the one-celled, two-
Yesterday and the day before and the day before, he had been doing this same monotonous thing—feeding swine. Low, contemptible task, the most humiliatingly possible menial work. No proud son of a Hebrew father should so debase himself. Ah— but there was no pride remaining— only hunger and shame and despair. Money gone, friends gone, clothes frayed, feet hot and dusty in worn- out sandals, hands grimy with toil, face streaked with weather, almost black under the fierce onslaught of the thirsty sun. It had been a long time since he had had enough to eat —a long time since he had met any one who cared for his soul. There was a saying, read somewhere— read or heard: “No man careth for my soul.” That other day— it seems only yes terday. and yet it has been so long —-when he had ridden away from the old home, his pockets lined with wealth, his beautiful hew clothes rich in colors—not as they were now, tat
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THE KING 'S BUSINESS
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