Now for a wondrous song,

Now for a wondrous song,
(Keep distance, ye profane;
Be silent, each unhallowed tongue,
Nor turn the truth to bane,)

The prodigal's returned -
The rebel bold and base,
That all his Father's counsel spurned,
And long abused his grace.

What treatment since he came?
Love, tenderly expressed.
What robe is brought to hide his shame?
The best, the very best.

Rich food the servants bring;
Sweet music charms his ears;
See what a beauteous, costly ring
The beggar's finger wears!

Ye elder sons, be still;
Give no bad passion vent;
My brethren, 'tis our Father's will,
And you must be content.

All that he has is yours!
Rejoice, then, not repine;
That love which all your state secures,
That love has altered mine.

Dear Lord! are these thy ways?
If rebels thus are freed,
And favoured with peculiar grace,
Grace must be free indeed!