Does That Lamp Still Burn In My Father'S House, Which He Kindled The Night I Went Away? I Turned Once Beneath The Cedar Boughs, And Marked It Gleam With A Golden Ray; Did He Think To Light Me Home Some Day? Hungry Here With The Crunching Swine, Hungry Harvest Have I To Reap; In A Dream I Count My Father'S Kine, I Hear The Tinkling Bells Of His Sheep, I Watch His Lambs That Browse And Leap. There Is Plenty Of Bread At Home, His Servants Have Bread Enough And To Spare; The Purple Wine-Fat Froths With Foam, Oil And Spices Make Sweet The Air, While I Perish Hungry And Bare. Rich And Blessed Those Servants, Rather Than I Who See Not My Father'S Face! I Will Arise And Go To My Father: - "Fallen From Sonship, Beggared Of Grace, Grant Me, Father, A Servant'S Place."