| 1 | Let us contemplate the grape vine, |
| | | From its life now let us learn, |
| | How its growth is fraught with suff’ring, |
| | | Midst environment so stern; |
| | How unlike the untamed flowers |
| | | Growing in the wilderness |
| | In a maze of wild confusion, |
| | | Making patterns numberless. |
| 2 | But the blossoms of the grape vine |
| | | Without glory are and small; |
| | Though they do have some expression, |
| | | They are hardly seen withal. |
| | But a day since they have flowered |
| | | Into fruit the blooms have grown; |
| | Never may they wave corollas |
| | | With luxuriant beauty shown. |
| 3 | To a post the vine is fastened; |
| | | Thus it cannot freely grow; |
| | When its branches are extended, |
| | | To the trellis tied they go. |
| | To the stony soil committed, |
| | | Drawing thence its food supply; |
| | It can never choose its own way, |
| | | Or from difficulty fly. |
| 4 | Oh, how beautiful its verdure, |
| | | Which in spring spreads o’er the field. |
| | From life’s energy and fulness |
| | | Growth abundant doth it yield. |
| | Till it’s full of tender branches |
| | | Twining freely everywhere, |
| | Stretching ‘gainst the sky’s deep azure |
| | | Tasting sweetly of the air. |
| 5 | But the master of the vineyard |
| | | Not in lenience doth abide, |
| | But with knife and pruning scissors |
| | | Then would strip it of its pride. |
| | Caring not the vine is tender, |
| | | But with deep, precision stroke |
| | All the pretty, excess branches |
| | | From the vine are neatly broke. |
| 6 | In this time of loss and ruin, |
| | | Dare the vine self-pity show? |
| | Nay, it gives itself more fully |
| | | To the one who wounds it so, |
| | To the hand that strips its branches, |
| | | Till of beauty destitute, |
| | That its life may not be wasted, |
| | | But preserved for bearing fruit. |
| 7 | Into hard wood slowly hardens |
| | | Every stump of bleeding shoot, |
| | Each remaining branch becoming |
| | | Clusters of abundant fruit. |
| | Then, beneath the scorching sunshine, |
| | | Leaves are dried and from it drop; |
| | Thus the fruit more richly ripens |
| | | Till the harvest of the crop. |
| 8 | Bowed beneath its fruitful burden, |
| | | Loaded branches are brought low- |
| | Labor of its growth thru suff’ring |
| | | Many a purposed, cutting blow. |
| | Now its fruit is fully ripened, |
| | | Comforted the vine would be; |
| | But the harvest soon is coming, |
| | | And its days of comfort flee. |
| 9 | Hands will pick and feet will trample |
| | | All the riches of the vine, |
| | Till from out the reddened wine-press |
| | | Flows a river full of wine. |
| | All the day its flow continues, |
| | | Bloody-red, without alloy, |
| | Gushing freely, richly, sweetly, |
| | | Filling all the earth with joy. |
| 10 | In appearance now the grape vine |
| | | Barren is and pitiful; |
| | Having given all, it enters |
| | | Into night inscrutable. |
| | No one offers to repay it |
| | | For the cheering wine that’s drunk, |
| | But ‘tis stripped and cut e’en further |
| | | To a bare and branchless trunk. |
| 11 | Yet its wine throughout the winter |
| | | Warmth and sweetness ever bears |
| | Unto those in coldness shiv’ring, |
| | | Pressed with sorrow, pain, and cares. |
| | Yet without, alone, the grape vine |
| | | Midst the ice and snow doth stand, |
| | Steadfastly its lot enduring, |
| | | Though ‘tis hard to understand. |
| 12 | Winter o’er, the vine prepareth |
| | | Fruit again itself to bear; |
| | Budding forth and growing branches, |
| | | Beauteous green again to wear; |
| | Never murmuring or complaining |
| | | For the winter’s sore abuse, |
| | Or for all its loss desiring |
| | | Its fresh off’ring to reduce. |
| 13 | Breathing air, untainted, heavenly, |
| | | As it lifts its arms on high, |
| | Earth’s impure, defiled affections |
| | | Ne’er the vine may occupy. |
| | Facing sacrifice, yet smiling, |
| | | And while love doth prune once more, |
| | Strokes it bears as if it never |
| | | Suffered loss and pain before. |
| 14 | From the branches of the grape vine |
| | | Sap and blood and wine doth flow. |
| | Does the vine, for all it suffered, |
| | | Lost, and yielded, poorer grow? |
| | Drunkards of the earth and wanderers, |
| | | From it drink and merry make. |
| | From their pleasure and enjoyment |
| | | Do they richer thereby wake? |
| 15 | Not by gain our life is measured, |
| | | But by what we’ve lost ‘tis scored; |
| | ’Tis not how much wine is drunken, |
| | | But how much has been outpoured. |
| | For the strength of love e’er standeth |
| | | In the sacrifice we bear; |
| | He who has the greatest suff’ring |
| | | Ever has the most to share. |
| 16 | He who treats himself severely |
| | | Is the best for God to gain; |
| | He who hurts himself most dearly |
| | | Most can comfort those in pain. |
| | He who suffering never beareth |
| | | Is but empty “sounding brass”; |
| | He who self-life never spareth |
| | | Has the joys which all surpass. |
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