1 Let us contemplate the grape vine,
From its life now let us learn,
How its growth is fraught with suff'ring,
2 But the blossoms of the grape vine
Though they do have some expression,
But a day since they have flowered
3 To a post the vine is fastened;
When its branches are extended,
Drawing thence its food supply;
4 Oh, how beautiful its verdure,
Which in spring spread o'er the field.
From life's energy and fulness
Growth abundant doth it yield.
Till it's full of tender branches
5 But the master of the vineyard
But with knife and pruning scissors
Then would strip it of its pride.
Caring not the vine is tender,
But with deep, precision stroke
6 In this time of loss and ruin,
Nay, it gives itself more fully
To the hand that strips its branches,
7 Into hard wood slowly hardens
Every stump of bleeding shoot,
Each remaining branch becoming
Then, beneath the scorching sunshine,
Leaves are dried and from it drop;
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,
9 Hands will pick and feet will trample
Till from out the reddened wine-press
All the day its flow continues,
10 In appearance now the grape vine
For the cheering wine that's drunk,
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
12 Winter o'er, the vine prepareth
Budding forth and growing branches,
Beauteous green again to wear;
13 Breathing air, untainted, heavenly,
Earth's impure, defiled affections
Facing sacrifice, yet smiling,
And while love doth prune once more,
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,
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
16 He who treats himself severely
He who hurts himself most dearly
Most can comfort those in pain.
He who suffering never beareth
Is but empty "sounding brass";