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.