The Prodigal's Sister 3 8/6/09 11:55 AM Page 1

P r e s e n t e d t o

F r o m

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w i t h t h e a r t o f R o b e r t D o a r e s R

C OSSWAY

A D i v i s i o n o f G o o d N e w s P u b l i s h e r s

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The Prodigal’s Sister

Text copyright © 2003 by John Piper Illustrations by Robert Doares from Immanuel, God With Us copyright

© 1994, Crossway Books

Published by Crossway Books a division of Good News Publishers 1300 Crescent Street,Wheaton, Illinois 60187

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher, except as provided by USA copyright laws.

Design by UDG|DesignWorks, www.udgdesignworks.com First printing 2003

Printed in Italy

L i b r a ry o f C on g r e s s C ata l o g i n g - i n - P u b l i c at i on Data Piper, John, 1946-The prodigal's sister / John Piper

p. cm.

ISBN 1-58134-529-1 (alk. paper)

1. Prodigal son (Parable)--Poetry. 2. Brothers and sisters--Poetry.

I.Title.

PS3566.I59P56 2003

811'.54--dc21

2003006926

PBI 11 10 09 08 07 06 05 04 03

13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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To A l l W h o

E v e r L o v e d a P r o d i g a l

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The Prodigal's Sister 3 8/6/09 11:55 AM Page 7

A Word to the Reader • 9

P a r t O n e

Both His Sons Had Died • 11

P a r t Tw o

Your Little Girl Can Raise the Dead • 25

P a r t Th r e e

May I Please Have This Dance? • 43

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A W o r d

t o

t h e

R e a d e r

rodigal. I don’t know which is harder—

to be one or to love one. But I know that Pwhen he comes home,there is great joy.

Jesus’ Parable of the Prodigal Son is about God and how he welcomes sinners who come home through Jesus.

Songs and poems and paintings and prayers have been inspired by this story. But I wonder if anyone has pondered the possibility that besides the prodigal and the older brother, there may have been a daughter. Jesus doesn’t say how the prodigal “came to himself.” But wouldn’t it be just like the ways of God to use the weak things of the world to shame the strong?

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

9

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Hayaneta is the prodigal’s sister. For ten years she has dreamed about finding her brother.

Finally the time has come. It is not safe for a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl in the sinful city of Noash. But Hayaneta is no ordinary girl.

And before her mission is complete, even her older brother will taste the sway of her courageous love.

John Piper

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P a r t O n e

B o t h H i s S o n s

H a d D i e d

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he road down from the father’s farm Was empty, like an empty arm

TThatonce embraced and then let go, Or beckoned someone from below.

The road runs west and curves its way Through miles and miles of wheat, and may, At harvest time, look like a path

Through paradise, or walls of wrath, Like water heaped on either side

Of Israel, for one, a tide

To save, and for another, slay.

At first the slope that leads away, And westward falls, is kind and soft, Then cursed with falling stones, and oft With wind and rutted steeps. And so, It proves an easy way to go,

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

1 3

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And hard to come.The front porch of The mansion, with a roof above

For shade, and rocking chairs below, Was planned and built ten years ago, And faces west. And recently

A ramp was added there to free

The old man from the steps. His knees Had gotten bad.

he cedar trees,

Spread ’round the house, cast shadows now TAs Hahyaneta kept her vow,

And sat before her father on

The steps, and prayed that dusk or dawn Would bring her brother home.The old Man watched her from his chair, controlled And measured in the mingling of

His pain and pleasure, with a love, Perhaps, that only fathers know.

Her brother Manon long ago

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J o h n P i p e r

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Gave up these futile seasons (as

He thought) and worked instead. He had More fruitful things to do than gaze With dreamers as the final rays

Of light and hope, he said, fade from The western sky. His heart was numb And cold. And so his father cried,

And felt that both his sons had died: The one from play when passions boil, The other from his toxic toil.

The one a hundred miles away,

The other even while he stay.

The one a slave to lust and fools,

The other slave to laws and rules.

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But Hahyaneta freely came

And nightly watched her brother’s name Fall from her father’s silent lips

In prayer, and saw the way it rips

His heart, and learned from him the way To love.This night her mind would stray Back to the time ten years ago

And more, when she was eight or so, And, oh, so happy when they played

With her. Both brothers and the staid Old man, now sitting in his chair,

Eyes closed and whispering his prayer, Would lie down in the autumn sheaves And she would cover them with leaves And cedar straw.Then she would leap And clap, as if to wake from sleep, And there would be a great earthquake, And three grown men would rise and shake And shout aloud with arms outspread:

“Our little girl can raise the dead.”

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J o h n P i p e r

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And so tonight she pondered this.

At eighteen she still felt the kiss Of Níqvah on her cheek, ten years

Ago, for one last time, and tears

Ran down his face when she said, “Níq, Don’t go.” She hugged his waist.Then quick, As if to do it while he could,

He turned and ran down through the wood, So he could stop to cry, then fled

Along the empty road that led

Down to the west away from all

His family and home. A call

That no one understood, and he,

Perhaps, the least, now seemed to be All-overpowering. His place

Was bare, nor has she seen his face.

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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Ten years have turned a little lass Into a woman now. But pass

As time may do, some things do not.

And Hahyaneta’s heart for what

One day she planned to do, was just As sure as on that night she thrust Her little hand into the dark

And said, “I’ll find you, Níqvah! Mark My words. Someday I’ll find you dead And bring you home alive.”

is head

Was lifted now, and eyes were wide

HTo look once more and see who plied The road from west to east. At last She said, “My father, firm and fast, Like great spikes in a tree, your love For Níqvah strengthens me above

My every other love, save yours,

And year by year this love endures.

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J o h n P i p e r

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And now I am eighteen, and ask

Your blessing on the only task

That I have dreamed and planned for all These years that Níq, since I was small, Has been away. I want to go

And find him where he is, and show

Him he can still come home.”

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e closed

His weak’ning eyes as if he dozed,

HThen said,“Just like your mother spoke, You speak. She would be pleased to stoke Your fire and send you on your way

With iron shield and sword to slay

Whatever dragons lay twixt you

And exploits that you aim to do.”

He smiled. “But, Hahya, she is gone, You know. All dragons slain but one: The fever. She fought well and lost,

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And now, my daughter, is the cost

Of having Níqvah, losing you?

It is not safe for girls to do

Such things, or go where Níqvah lives.

I’ve been there many times. It gives My heart a shudder just to think

Of how they lust and what they drink And what they say to girls and do.

Níqvah is not the boy that you

Remember, Hahyaneta. He’s

Changed.” “Father, I know all of these Unpleasant things. It’s plain to me That he has changed. But so have we.

Ten years of prayer were not in vain.

And I believe some things remain

From all you’ve taught, a tender tug, And that he still can feel the hug

I gave him when he pulled away

Just like I feel his kiss today.

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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And, Father, most of all, you taught Me there’s a Pow’r in love that naught Can thwart, and that it moves where truth And courage speak, and neither youth Nor age can hinder its success,

But only fear and quietness.

My mother died when I was six

And I still see today the sticks

She broke and said, ‘See that! Just so God breaks the back of ev’ry foe

To bring his children home.’ I think That she would let me go.” “A blink, My daughter, in a blink she would

Have let you go.” “And you? I could Not well succeed without your hand

Of blessing on my head.” He scanned The darkening west and empty road

And fields, and wondered what they bode Now for his little girl; then raised His trembling, empty arm and praised 2 2

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J o h n P i p e r

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The grace and courage in her heart, And did then, in these words, impart A blessing, with his right hand laid Now gently on her head: “Invade,

My valiant daughter, darkness now,

And I will keep our common vow

Here in this place until you come

Again, and may you bring me some

Good news beyond the gift of men,

That both my boys may live again.”

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A

C a l l

O weary soul, with waiting spent, Cease not to hope, nor cries relent.

And when the months stretch into years And decades gather up the tears, Know this, a little girl—or, it May be, a boy—is being knit,

All by design, in someone’s womb To breathe against the evening gloom, And then become, in ways that you Have never dreamed, nor ever knew, A light within your dark’ning sky, And answer to your deepest cry.

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J o h n P i p e r

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P a r t T w o

Yo u r L i t t l e

G i r l C a n R a i s e

t h e D e a d

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he old man leaned against the beam

Beside his ramp, and watched a dream TUnfold before his weakened eyes,

And prayed that Hahyaneta’s prize

Would be her brother’s life. He raised His empty arm and smiled, amazed

That ten years had not broken the

Resolve and hope in her that she

Would be the way her brother would

Come home. He waved once more, and stood There on the porch, and watched her take The final turn from sight, and make Her lonely way toward Noash on

The coast. He thought, “Your mother’s brawn And beauty mingle well in you,

My child. I know what she would do, T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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If she were here. She’d look at me

And say, ‘It’s time to eat.’Then she Would go inside to spread the meal

And wait for news that Hahya’s heel Had crushed the serpent’s head of lies And freed her son to be the prize

Of Hahyaneta’s quest.”

he old

Man lingered. Better than he told,

TOr wished to tell,he knew the way

To Noash, and the town.The day

Would not go down until some knave

Would hurl a slur against his brave And tender girl.The road that leads To Noash is a trap, but breeds,

Against its gluttony and lure,

A grief and anguish in the pure.

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J o h n P i p e r

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Five days she walked, and slept at night In synagogues, or in the sight

Of one, if rabbis were unsure

That she was scrupulous.The poor

Would take her in and make a place; And she would say at dawn: “May grace Abound to you, and would you pray

That very soon my brother may

Receive me in the way you did.”

And then she ventured on and bid

Them all farewell, until she came

To Noash by the sea.

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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he flame

Above the curving rim of blue

TAnd rolling waves fell blazing through The evening haze, and boiled with blood-Red spray, it seemed, and sent a flood Of molten crimson flowing forth

On the horizon to the north

And south. She climbed a hill outside The town so she could watch, and tried To put herself in Níqvah’s place,

And thought: “I wonder if his face

Is ever set to climb this hill,

And watch the west, and feel the thrill Of what I see: An image of

The heritage our father’s love

Bequeaths to us in endless seas

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J o h n P i p e r

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Of golden grain that roll like these Great waves, and blaze with fire like them In beauty, but do not condemn

The seamen who embark and fail

But only those who will not sail.”

She wondered, as the sun went down, Where she should stay the night: in town, Or on a nearby farm? And as

She prayed, she thought, “My father has A lot of rooms and loves to share.

Perhaps there is a farm somewhere

Nearby with rooms and with a heart

Like his.” She raised her head, and part Way up the hill along the road

An old man with a crooked goad

And scrawny goat walked slowly from The field, and as he sang a psalm,

Made his way home. His face was thin And on his neck there was more skin Than there was meat to fill. She knew The song. It made her tremble through T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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The twilight—and rejoice.The man

Must be some distant kin and clan

To know this song. And yet it did

Not bode well for her brother’s bid To live, if wealth had taken wing.

Just barely could she hear him sing:

“When the staff is broken,*

And in judgment spoken

Righteousness is heard,

Think not God is silent,

Though the famine violent,

This is but His word.

He stands not to give account.

It is we who must before Him.

Come, let us adore Him!”

* The song is to the tune of “Jesus Priceless Treasure.”

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J o h n P i p e r

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“Excuse me sir, I’m looking for

A place to stay, a simple floor,

Or porch. I have a blanket of

My own. Perhaps a roof above

My head, that’s all.”The old man gazed A long time.Then he said, “Amazed;

I am amazed. He said I’d see

And be amazed.” “Who said you’d be

Amazed? At what?” “Your father said I’d be amazed.Well, shake my head!

I truly am amazed! You look

Just like them.” “Like who?” Her voice shook.

“Your father and your brother.There, The chin, the cheek, the nose, the hair.

Amazing.” “Sir, which brother do

You mean?” “I mean the one that you Have come to find, Níqvah.” “You know My brother’s name?” “And yours, although You don’t know me.Your given name

Is Hahyaneta. And your fame

Has come before you. He told me

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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For years that one day I would see

You on the road to Noash. In

Your blood, he said. It’s more than skin That knits you to your mother and,

I add, your father.” “Sir, I stand

Before a man I do not know,

And yet who knows me well. Please show Me who you are, and take me to

My brother.”

ome, let’s walk. I knew

Your father years ago when he

C

“

First came to seek his son and see

If he could take him home.The lad

Refused, and so your Father bade

Me keep an eye on him, and gave

Me money. ‘Keep him from the grave,’

He said. And so for ten years I

Have seen your father come and try, Time after time, to show the boy

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J o h n P i p e r

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That there is hope and far more joy At home than in this place. I know

Your father very well.” “I owe

You much, kind sir.Tell me, how long Has famine reigned? I heard the song.

Does Níqvah have enough to pay?”

“The boy eats carob pods to stay

Alive. He steals them from the pigs, And sometimes gathers flint and twigs For pennies and a place to stay.”

“Do you know where he is today?”

The old man pointed to a shed

With three sides. “There, he makes his bed, With bats, and sleeps on gathered leaves.

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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His daily rent: to keep the thieves Away and feed the swine. I’ll wait

Here if you like.” “You’ve been a great Help, sir, but you don’t need to stay.

I’ll be all right.Thank you, and may My father trouble you no more.

Come visit us. My father’s door

Is always open.” “Fare thee well,

Young lass. It was no trouble.Tell

Your father I will come someday.”

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She walked down toward the shed. He lay There on the leaves as still as death.

She wondered, as she watched, if breath Still came. His eyes were closed. His cheek Was dark and hollow, and the reek

Was foul. His fingernails were caked With dirt, and streaks of black soil snaked Across his rutted brow. His hair

Had not been washed for months. And there Were no shoes anywhere. His feet

Were bare, his ragged cloak replete With eaten holes. And in his sleep

He gripped a pouch he used to keep

The parchments that his father sent.

She kneeled beside his head and bent Down over him and kissed his cheek.

Incredibly there was no shriek

Or sudden jerk. He stared into

The face of Hahyaneta. “Who

Are you?” he said, and sat up in

His leaves. “Hi, Níq.You’ve gotten thin.”

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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No one had called him Níq for years, Except his dad. He saw the tears

Pool in her eyes. And then she said,

“Your little girl can raise the dead.”

His mouth fell open. “Hahya?” “Yes, I said I’d come, no more no less,

And bring you home, alive.” “The last Time I saw you, you hadn’t passed

Four feet.You must be eighteen now.”

He pushed the hair back from her brow.

“It’s really you. Did you come by

Yourself?” “Yes.” “Why? You want to die?

This city is a pit. It blinds

The young with dazzling names, then binds And swallows them alive.” “I’m here, To bring you home,” she said, “it’s clear You don’t belong.” “As clear as mud.

Look, Hahya, you don’t know the crud Inside.You don’t know who I am.”

“Hear this, my brother, I do damn

Those words and call them lies. It’s you 3 8

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J o h n P i p e r

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Who don’t know who you are. It’s true There is a mystery.What makes

You think the dazzled dupes and fakes Of Noash can declare the true

And wonderful design of who

You are? One knows, and only one,

Who Níqvah is. And when you’re done With dabbling in the darkness here –

All dazzling as it is—the clear,

Bright air of eastern skies will bring You home to him. And I will sing.

Awake, O sleeper, from the grave,

You are a son and not a slave.”

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They sat in silence for a long

Long time. He was amazed how strong This little girl of eight had grown.

And then she changed her look and tone:

“He built a porch just after you

Had left. It faces west.We knew

What it was for. He’ll be there, Níq.

And will not quench a smoldering wick.

Come home with me. Even tonight.

I have some bread, the moon is bright.

It’s cooler in the dark, and we

Can sleep by day. Please, come with me.”

And quietly the fetters and

The folly fell. She took his hand,

And where he had before said No

A hundred times, he said, “Let’s go.”

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J o h n P i p e r

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A C a l l

Come, flick’ring hope, and carry fire; From this my story and desire,

Ignite your smold’ring wick, and make Your candle blaze. And may Christ take This happy flame and with it burn Up ev’ry hopeless word, and turn The fatal dream of false despair Into the bright and living air

That blows down from the Father’s farm.

And may you feel the mighty arm Of God lift you into the light

Of Truth, and put an end to night.

We do not know ourselves aright Until we have the Father’s light.

We think we know ourselves and groan, Until we know as we are known.

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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P a r t T h r e e

M ay I P le a s e

H av e Th i s

D a n c e ?

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our nights they walked, and slept by day.

Beneath the carob branches lay

FThe daughter fast asleep from hard And weary nights; and keeping guard Beside her, lay the prodigal,

His moving lips inaudible,

Still restless and awake, transfixed On bloody bark and branches twixt

The earth and sky, where traitors used To hang with common thieves accused Of treason toward their sovereign king And, in the act, of plundering

His wealth.

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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he lips of Níqvah spoke

A wordless speech: “O, Father, cloak TThis worse-than-naked son with rags, And feed me from the garbage bags,

And let me live with slaves, for I

Have treated you with scorn, and my Contempt was worse than all the blame That stained this bloody tree with shame, Which now, with life and leaves arrayed, Spreads out and covers me with shade.

I do not ask to sit with kings,

But only shade beneath your wings.”

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And so the prodigal rehearsed

His speech and waited for the first Signs of his sister’s wakening.

Mid afternoon she stirred. “I’ll bring You water, if you like,” he said.

“I’d like that, Níqvah. All the bread Is gone, you know.” “I know. Let’s try To make it home tonight.The sky

Looks happy to the west. I think

We’ll make it. I’ll go get your drink.”

When he returned, the packs were rolled And Hahyaneta said, “I told

Your brother you would come.” “What did He say?” But Hahyaneta hid

Her face as they began to walk,

And didn’t answer him. “Some talk

Of pain is good, you know.” “I know.

He said he didn’t care. ‘Just go

And waste your breath,’ he said.” The tears Rolled down her cheeks. “How many years Has Manon felt that way?” he asked.

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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“Unless he’s keeping something masked, He never cared.” “I’m not surprised.

He never wrote.To be despised

Is sometimes good for us. I don’t

Deserve his pity, and I won’t

Demand his love.The way I spurned

Our Father surely has well earned

For me whatever Manon feels.

How great his love must be that reels With hate so long! Perhaps, if he

Believed that I have come to see

How precious is our Father’s care

And how unspeakable and rare

His heart, and noble is his mind,

Then, maybe, there would be a kind

Of softening of Manon toward

My soul.” “I wish for such reward,

My brother, but I fear the wrath

Of Manon grows along a path

Far diff’rent from the one you hope.

Oh, that his anger were the scope

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J o h n P i p e r

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And measure of his love for all

That our great Father is. But gall

And bitterness are not born from

The thrall of mercy nor do come

From treasuring the fountain of

Delight we call our Father’s love.

There is another stream that feeds

The bitterness of his good deeds.”

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Now as the evening came and they

Began to climb the rugged way

That leads up to the great Plateau, All conversation ceased. Below,

And now behind these two, ten years Of emptiness burst, to the cheers

Of every waving stalk of grain,

A bubble in the wind, and feign

The beauty it possessed before

It broke. His back now to the shore Beyond the western rim, the son

Stood trembling on the road—the one Where he had run the other way,

As though it were but yesterday.

Before him lay what seemed a sea

Of endless gold.What enemy,

He thought, could make a boy believe That any distant world could weave

A better beauty than this place?

Then suddenly he said, “My face,

My hair! I’m filthy, Hahya. Look

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J o h n P i p e r

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At me!” She smiled at him and took

A long, deep breath, and said, “Let’s go.”

The old man’s chair rocked to and fro.

His lips moved silently as though

He sang some favorite psalm.The glow Of golden red and crimson rays

Had set the western fields ablaze,

As if some cosmic cause were found

For merry-making. But no sound

Was heard except the rhythm of

The rocking chair. And then, above

The rail, the old man saw two shapes, And stopped. He thought, “I know the capes That Hahyaneta wears.” He took

The rail and stood so he could look.

T h e P r o d i g a l ’s S i s t e r •

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And then he saw her lift her hand

The way she always did, then stand, And let the other shape go on.

He knew. For all his soul was drawn, And there was no resisting this.

He left his cane, and, lest he miss A step, he jumped them all, and ran, Forgetting that he was a man

Of dignity, and that his knees

Were bad. He often thought, with ease Someday I’ll run on these, and more.

Is this not what they’re ruined for?

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He stopped just long enough to see

His eyes and take a breath.Then he

Embraced the boy, and pressed his face Against the foul and crusty place

He used to kiss the lad goodnight,

And pushed his fingers through the tight And matted hair; and there with plain And heaving sobs, released the pain Built up four thousand nights. And then, The weeping son said, “Father, can

Perhaps, you make a slave of me,

For I have sinned and cannot be

Your son?”To which the great old man Replied, “I have a different plan.”

And then, to servants gathered by,

He said, “Bring me the ring, and my Best robe, and leather shoes. And take The fire and fatted calf, and make

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For us the finest feast that we

Have ever made. For this, you see,

My dead son is alive and sound;

He once was lost, but now is found.”

And so the common labor ceased,

And ev’ry hand prepared the feast.

The colors flew at ev’ry gate!

And they began to celebrate.

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As usual, Manon was in

The field and working late. He’d been There since the crack of dawn and worked All day. “Let duty not be shirked,”

He liked to say, and took some pride In his long hours, and liked to chide The servants, that he could out-serve Them ev’ry day, and out-deserve

Them all. He heard the music from

The house and saw the servants come Out dancing on the lawn. His first

Response to songs and joy: a burst

Of anger: this is not the way

To serve their Lord! What holiday

Have they declared to frolic like

A carefree child? If I must strike

Them, then I will, to see that they Learn how to serve and to obey.

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“What’s all this racket here?” He snapped.

A servant overflowed and clapped,

“He’s back! He’s back! Níqvah is back!”

He frowned, “And in the prison shack With other thieves, may I suppose?”

“Oh, no, Sir Manon! Master chose

The fattest calf and killed it for

A feast, and said, ‘Bring wine and pour A goblet for my son, and let

All work be put aside and get

My ring and finest robe with joy,

And put them on my living boy.’”

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The older son was stunned and stood There by the fence he’d made, and would Not enter.Then his Father saw

Him by the fence, and went to draw

Him in. “Your brother’s home. Come see Him, Manny. He has changed.You’ll be Amazed.” “I’ll tell you, Father, what Amazes me: that he can strut

Here like an honored guest although He took your hard-earned cash to throw It down the sewers of Noash,

And let you subsidize his brash

And wicked reveling with whores.

And made you weep behind those doors For ten years while I slaved to make A profit on this place. So take

Your pick, my Lord, the wicked one

In there, or me, the working son.”

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“I’d like to think that all these years You have enjoyed the place. It sears The soul, Manon, to take your rage

To bed night after night.You wage

A war against your self. Beware

Of other mistresses whose snare

Is just as deadly as the kind

Your brother sought. Oh, be not blind, My son. All that I have is yours,

And free. For all time it endures.

But if what you desire is pay,

Bequests will never come that way.

Come join me at the table, son,

The labors of the day are done.”

But Manon stood there like a stone, And sent his Father back alone.

The girl was watching from the door, And as her Father passed, “Once more, Perhaps,” he took her hand and said,

“Our little girl can raise the dead.”

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J o h n P i p e r

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She turned and saw the shining face Of Níqvah laughing in the grace

Of life, then through the evening shade Beyond the fence that Manon made,

She walked.

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is face was streaked where sweat

Ran through the pollen dust, and met HHis tangled beard.The garments that He wore for working stank. And at

The middle of his fingers there

Were blisters on both hands. Despair Seemed written on his frozen face.

“In vain,” he thought. “He said the race And pace were all in vain.The hours, The years, the sweat, the plans, my pow’rs—

For naught. Bequests don’t come that way.”

Then Hahyaneta kissed the gray

And brownish coating on his cheek,

And said, “Hi, Manny.You look weak.

Can I get you a drink?” He shook

His head, “No thanks.” “Manon, it took 6 0

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J o h n P i p e r

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Your breath away, what Father said.

I think I understand.The dread

You feel right now—that all your sweat Has been in vain—it’s true. And yet It is a gift to know bequests

Are free, and loaded treasure chests Of grace, all hidden in the ground, Are never earned, but only found.

And dancing doesn’t come that way,

And happy parties are not pay.

Day labor is of no avail,

The gift of joy is not for sale.

You’ve labored hard to shun what’s bad And now it’s hard to just be glad.

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But, Manny, look.Your Father and

The servants and your brother stand Inside the door and bid you come.

And listen to the children drum!”

She took his hand: “Come, all is well.”

And thus the fetters broke and fell.

He waked as from a life-long trance, And said, “May I please have this dance?”

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A C a l l

And now, O Christ, let there be light So we can see the way aright

Between two dismal forms of death, And with that light, O give us breath To live again, and bring us back From pleasures in a foreign shack, Or from the pride of weary arm, While working on the Father’s farm.

From demon sloth and pleasures raw, Or demon toil and pride of law.

The pathway home from either place Is opened by the word of grace.

O Christ, pursue us till we see That all of God’s bequests are free.

The ticket that we have to show Is this: that we are glad to go.

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Document Outline

- Contents

- A Word to the Reader

- Part One: Both His Sons Had Died

- Part Two: Your Little Girl Can Raise the Dead

- Part Three: May I Please Have This Dance?

Table of Contents

Contents

A Word to the Reader

Part One: Both His Sons Had Died

Part Two: Your Little Girl Can Raise the Dead

Part Three: May I Please Have This Dance?