“How was it that you sought me?”
He asks of them as he asks of you.
The question echoes down the Ages.
How was it that you sought me?

You have searched everywhere,
left to your own devices,
to satisfy the terrible yearning
for more, for fulfillment, for truth.

At first, you looked to what excites.
It was the gratification that made you smile
ever so briefly. But it was not joy,
and faded into consequence and guilt.

You sought your peace in nature,
but as the birds sang
and the trees grew silently in the breeze,
you only ever wondered more about them.

You inquired with all those who claim to know
and found only that they neither knew,
nor knew themselves,
and that they were as restless as you.

You turned in on yourself,
as if improving who you are in the world
and increasing your standing with others
would quell the longing.

Spent.  Not only exhausted, but beaten,
wounded, and scarred,
you enter your father’s house to beg mercy
and return.  There,

you find all that you needed,
and seeing your raggedness from the quest,
your brokeness and anguish, he asks,
“How was it that you sought me?”