Poem May 21, 1949 Issue

MY SON

Hazel A. Wood

"Son , come home."
So spoke the father
With tender authority.
The small boy dropped his toys;
He ran joyfully into his father's arms.
Resting his head on the broad shoulder,
He was content.

"Son, come home."
So spoke my heavenly Father,
Drawing me with cords of Love.
Was I as ready to leave my dreams,
To run to those arms
With utter trust,
To rest there,
Asking nought else?

Father-Mother God,
Within Thine arms is home—
And heaven.
I hear Thee and obey Thy voice.
Running with feet of gladness,
I cry, "My Father,"
And Thou dost reply,
"My son."

Hazel A. Wood

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