For fear the father picks up and runs

Towards the distant, prodigal son;

Fear that his still open wounds

Would eat up the sudden joy

Born of the sight of the boy;

Fear that smarting, second thoughts

Would close the door and turn the lock.

The old man sagely anticipated

That if he walked or simply waited,

The rancor would surely overtake

And leave him in the dust of hate

With crossed arms bolted fast

Until the very, bitter last

When sour death blots out the sun.

For fear of this the father runs.