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Poem by Edith Nesbit The Prodigal’s Return I REACH my hand to thee! Stoop; take my hand in thine; Lead me where I would be, Father divine. I do not even know The way I want to go, The way that leads to rest: But, Thou who knowest me, Lead where I cannot see, Thou knowest best. Toys, worthless, yet desired, Drew me afar to roam. Father, I am so tired; I am come home. The love I held so cheap I see, so dear, so deep, So almost understood. Life is so cold and wild, I am thy little child— I _will_ be good. Edith Nesbit Edith Nesbit's other poems: 1203 Views |
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