Greetje: New page: {{info}}It has been ten years since the Prodigal Son left everything he knew – his home, his sister, his older brother, and his father. And now the prodigal’s sister intends to fulfill...

2008-10-13T14:56:53Z

New page: {{info}}It has been ten years since the Prodigal Son left everything he knew – his home, his sister, his older brother, and his father. And now the prodigal’s sister intends to fulfill...

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{{info}}It has been ten years since the Prodigal Son left everything he knew – his home, his sister, his older brother, and his father. And now the prodigal’s sister intends to fulfill her promise, to find the Prodigal dead and bring him home alive. John Piper opens for us the world of the Prodigal, where the awakening grace of God breaks in. The rebellion of a son, the love of a sister, the grace of a Father, and the bitterness of the older brother are all recreated for us in this moving three-part poem.

The road down from the father's farm Was empty, like an empty arm That once embraced and then let go, Or one that beckoned 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, 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.

The cedar trees, Spread 'round the house, cast shadows now As 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 Mãnon long ago Gave up these futile seasons (as He thought) and worked instead. He has 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.

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.”

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.

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.”

His head Was lifted now, and eyes were wide To 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. 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.”

He closed His weak'ning eyes as if he dozed, Then 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 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. 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 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.”

As we light candle one today, Let none relent, but ever pray, 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 For hope and with a happy loom; And will become, in ways that you Have never dreamed nor ever knew, A light within your darkening sky, And answer to your endless cry.

The Prodigal's Sister, Part 1 - Revision history

Greetje: New page: {{info}}It has been ten years since the Prodigal Son left everything he knew – his home, his sister, his older brother, and his father. And now the prodigal’s sister intends to fulfill...