The cry, "Return, return," falls four times upon the ear, and yet you say his ears are stopped. You see the ruin, the wasting of substance, the house that swallows up all, and your heart is rent. The lower voices, the wreckage, the shame, the broken vows, cry out "Return," yet they seem to echo back with nothing but a metallic ring of stubbornness. But behind his flight, there is a higher voice, a voice that uses the marriage name, the name given in baptism, in the boyhood love for God he once knew. That voice does not merely scold or mourn; it beckons, "Return, return, O my best beloved, and come to me!"
I bid you take heart in this: the Father's eyes are quicker than the eyes of repentance. Though your husband cannot now see his Father's house or the love that waits there, the gaze of mercy rests upon him even in the far country. The first thought of the Heavenly Father is not wrath, but a piercing lament, "O my poor son, that ever he should have brought himself into such a state as this!" The Lord sees the rags, the hunger, the slavery long before the sinner feels his own destitution. He runs while the prodigal is yet a great way off.
Yet, let me be plain. The repentance that merely sobs under the lash of judgment is not the "repentance unto life." There is a carnal sorrow, a repentance bred in the pigsty that longs for bread more than it longs for the Father's face. Such repentance is sheer hypocrisy, a lulling of conscience that allows a man to wipe his mouth and return to his vomit as if nothing had happened. You must pray, not only that he sees the ruin, but that God grants him a repentance that gives God the glory. Pray for a sorrow that springs, not from a sickened body or an empty purse, but from a vision of the goodness of God and the love of Christ that he is trampling underfoot. This is the sweet, lasting repentance which makes a rainbow with its tears, grief for sin and glances of hope at the finished work of the Cross.
Press this upon the throne of grace: that the voice of mercy would become an immediate and urgent thunder to his soul. "Return now," says the Lord. Not tomorrow, when the chains have grown tighter, but now, while the lifeblood still runs warm in his veins, lest he mingle his blood with his sacrifices and perish in his iniquity. The call is not of condemnation; it is the relentless, gracious cry, "Return, you backsliding children, and I will heal your backslidings."
And when he comes, for we must pray with faith that he will, let him know that there is abundant forgiveness. The kisses of the Father's lips mean overflowing comfort, much love for the returning sinner. There is no hard welcome, no harsh upbraiding, but a falling on the neck in a flood of holy affection. He joys in the return of the prodigal, and all heaven shares in His joy. So fight on your knees, not with the weapons of a despairing wife, but as one who reminds God of His own promises to the wandering Shulamite, believing that He who sees afar off is even now speaking a secret word to the heart that has grown far away.