O sing to me the blessèd vineyard song,
Of my Lover make melody:
He planted on a hill, verdant and strong—
My dear Lover, my heartbeat—
He plowed and weeded, removed all the stones,
Dug out for it a wine vat deep,
Raised up a tower to watch all His own,
And beamed at its completion.
Its vines, however, bore no sweetened fruit—
What more could He have done for it?—
But rotten, reeking be’ushim ensued
That causes only vomit.
O why not grapes? O why this rancid stench?
“I’ll tear it down, tower to pit,
With hammer and chisel and wrench:
Watch its ruin like a comet.”
O hear this song, and take it well to heart,
Find wisdom in its words and tune;
Before His demolition at last starts,
Before the vineyard-violence.
Spurn not my Lover’s gracious gardening,
Nor shun His hand to prune;
All those He loves receive His husbanding
O trust His gen’rous kindness.