The young lad had not been prepared for a time like this, and all the silent soliloquies he entertained in his head were now all laid bare before his Father, with nothing but pure horror and shame flooding through his entire fibre of being.
"You know what I've done," and that came out like a whimper from the young man, a former shell of who he was in front of his Father.
"Oh yes, and I know that which you have not done as well my child," and as this came from the Father, the young man wept, summoning strength to stifle his tears.
And the indignance of the child began to flood: "But it's so hard to swallow, it really is! My faith, and my pride in You, did they not count for anything at all?"
"But my child, are you not humbled? Have you not learnt? Do you not see?"
To this the young man said, "I've no strength left, and I am spent. May I come in to rest again? I've no more courage to face the world, I know not what to think of myself, and I long to see You so much. Tears have been my food, shame has been my drink, and my cup is empty and I am dry!"
And he sang the only words he remembered, the song his mother taught him to sing in the dead of the night when fears crept in, where doubts seep in and where anxieties rushed in:
'Into my heart,
Into my heart,
Into my heart,
O Father!
Come in to stay,
Come in today,
Come into my heart,
Come in to stay,
Come in today,
Come into my heart,
O Father!'
"O Father, this child is spent, this child is weary, how can he give when he is so weak?"