Return, O wanderer, to thy home,
Thy Father calls for thee;
No longer now an exile roam,
In guilt and misery:
Too long the loathsome fields of sin
Thy fruitless toil have known:
No wholesome bread! no voice of kin!
No home to call thine own!
Thy Father stands with outstretched hands,
He gave His Son for thee:
Poor soul, from sin’s enthralling bands
He longs to see thee free.
Arise, stand up and homeward turn,
No longer dwell apart;
His mighty love will never spurn
One humble contrite heart.
Our Father’s house is full of bliss,
And there is room for all;
He welcomes with forgiving kiss:
O, hear His loving call!
The feast of joys awaits thee there,
The precious robe and ring;
O haste Thy Father’s gifts to share,
O haste His praise to sing: