Let us contemplate the grape vine

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.