Volume > Issue > The Prodigal Father and His Child

The Prodigal Father and His Child


By “Julian Norwich” | June 1986

“Well, Father, my share of the farm has

been turned into gold.

I take it and go, and be sure that I will

not crawl

Back to an ancient who mutters of sin

and the Fall.

I will run loose on the hills with the free

and the bold,

Tearing my meat with my teeth, like a

Thracian of old.

I will be valiant and resolute, fearless

and tall.

None shall forbid me anything: winner

take all.

I will have none of the cramped, the rigid,

the cold.”


— “Yet you shall come to me, will it

            or not, in the end.

And Death will show you into his

        cramped, chill house…

Calling me cold! If you knew how,

        this moment, I burn

With longing to draw you once

        more to your one true friend,

The One who is father and mother

        and lover and spouse —

Crying, my darling, my darling, re-
­turn — return!”


© 1986 New Oxford Review. All Rights Reserved

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