Prodigal Son

Staring at a cross of splintered wood
 My sins washed away through Christ's own blood
 All my blessings gone, though my mind it wanders on
 Going home in my memory...
 Between the years and the miles
 I am broken and down
 Bless me father, where do I begin
 On my hands and my knees,
 I go crawling back home,
 To find absolution within
 Eighteen years old, but not yet a man
 With misplaced ideologies
 Recognizing only God as my equal
 Left home and disgraced my family
 With a dream in my head and a restless soul
 Sensing I would soon be free
 I took to heart my granddads fables
 They made up the core of my identity
 For eight long years I tramped through the fallout
 Of nuclear society
 The underclass
 Forgotten mass in a nation of revelry
 Fare thee well, my old dear friend
 The road goes ever on, but I am going home
 Back to where it all began
 In a filthy rundown tenement
 I set out to spread God's name
 I thought the word would start the fire
 And my voice would fan the flame
 But I soon learned that in this hopelessness
 A great many things went unsaid
 My first lesson was that good intentions
 Aren't gonna keep you warm and fed
 With no recourse I took a job at the packing house
 No one who I could edify
 As my dreams like leaves in autumn
 Disappeared before my eyes