THE STORY OF A GRAPEVINE
1. Consider now,
dear ones,
The life of a
grapevine,
It has no easy
life,
Its hardships
intertwine;
Unlike wild flowers
in the field
That gayly, wildly
bloom,
In countless
patterns up they grow,
Full liberty
assume.
2. The flowers of
the vine
Are plain and small
in size;
So humbly do they
bloom,
Unnoticed by most
eyes.
The time for
blossoms is so short,
Soon into fruit
they grow.
No charm is there
for them to boast,
No elegance to
show.
3. So fastened to a
post,
It cannot freely
grow;
Up to the trellises
Its branches tied
must go.
From stony soil the
vine is forced
To draw its food
supply;
It has no way to
change its course,
Or from its
hardship fly.
4. How lovely is
the green
Of Spring's
beautiful scene!
So natural is its
growth,
With brightness so
serene.
Out of the vine's
abundant life
So full and so
complete,
Against the azure,
branches flow
To taste the air so
sweet.
5. Behold, the
master comes
His guidance to
provide;
The pruning knife
he brings
To strip it of its
pride,
Not minding all its
tender shoots,
To cleanse and
cleanse again,
Till all excessive
branches fall
To comply with his
plan.
6. During this time
of loss,
Dare it self-pity
show?
No, no, it yields
but more
To him who wounds
it so,
Yes, to the hand
that strips it of
All glory and all
pride.
The vine thus keeps
the strength of life
That much fruit may
abide.
7. To hardened wood
is turned
Each stump of
bleeding shoot,
And each remaining
branch
Brings forth abundant
fruit.
Scorched by the
burning sun, its leaves
Turn dry and fall
away.
The fruit thus
ripens more and more
Until the harvest
day.
8. Due to the
fruitful load,
The branches are
brought low,
The consequence of
pain
And many a
thoughtful blow.
In bearing clusters
of fine fruit,
Comforted it must
be;
But soon will come
the harvest time.
The days of comfort
flee.
9. Upon the
hand-picked fruit
Comes treading of
the feet.
The greatest
treasure lies
Where grapes and
wine-press meet.
When grapes are crushed
inside the press,
Red wine begins to
flow,
Like surging rivers
bringing joy
The earth to
overflow.
10. So barren is
the vine,
Its all is spent in
full,
And now its plight
again
Is dreary night and
woe.
No one would stoop
to thank the vine
For cheering wine
that's drunk;
Instead, more
stripping is at hand
To make a
branchless trunk.
ll. Throughout the
winter time,
Its wine gives
warmth, and cheers
The shiv'ring ones
whose chill
Is mixed with grief
and tears.
But midst the ice
and snow without,
The vine is thus to
stand.
Why does it strive
to bear it all?
It's hard to
understand.
12. When winter's
o'er, it yearns
Once more much
fruit to bear.
New shoots come
forth again
To weave its
garment fair.
It has no murm'ring
or complaint
For winter's sore abuse.
Its all it gives,
and still wills not
Its off'ring to
reduce.
13. It stretches up
toward heav'n,
And breathes the
fresh clean air.
Untouched by
earthly joy,
Self-love it does
not bear.
It smiles at
sacrifice ahead,
Accepting odds once
more,
As if no strokes,
no stripping sore
Can it ever recall.
14. Much sap and
wine and blood
Out from its
branches flow.
Does emptying
itself
Cause it more poor
to grow?
From it, drunkards
and wanderers
Do drink and merry
make.
Do they, from
pleasure much, become
More wealthy when
they wake?
15. Measure your
life by loss,
Never measure by
gain;
Not by much wine
consumed,
But wine poured out
in pain.
The strength of
love stands ever in
Love's sacrifice to
show.
The more one
suffers, then the more
True love can he bestow.
16. He who spares
not himself
Is best for God to
gain;
Who hurts himself
the most
Can best soothe
those in pain.
Unless well-learned
in being stripped,
A sounding brass is
he.
Unless averse to
saving self,
Ne'er can he
blissful be.
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