 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
The Pruning of the Vine
“My Father is the Husbandman”
I
A midst the clusters of a VineI saw a glorious Hand Divine
Backward and forward, glance and shine.
II
With gleaming knife, now here, now there,Stroke after stroke—it did not spare
Green leaf, or fruit, or tendril fair.
III
Wondering at that strange sight, I cried,Lord, turn the fatal steel aside,
Spoil not that bough's luxuriant pride.
IV
See how its swelling grapes hang low,Its leaves in mantling beauty grow,
While spicy odours from it flow.
107
V
Ah, Lord, Thy chastening hand restrain,Strike not that fruitful bough again,
Give it sweet sunshine, dew, and rain.
VI
Are there not other branches, bareOf clustering fruit, which need Thy care?
Expend Thy sharp correction there!
VII
The Heavenly Pruner made reply—The barren branches I pass by,
Unworthy of My culture high.
VIII
Clothed with redundant leaves they grow,And make an empty, Summer show—
Soon to be sundered with a blow.
IX
On fruitful boughs My care I spend,And sharpness with My love I blend:
When most severe, then most their Friend.
X
The thick green leaves I cut awayTo let the sunshine have full play
And touch the grapes with ripening ray.
108
XI
I crop each useless, tendrilled shootLest it should rob the swelling fruit
Of moisture rising from the root.
XII
Nay, under My keen knife will fallE'en fruit itself when rank or small,
Lest, sparing some, I forfeit all.
XIII
Fruit I come seeking evermore—Branches weighed down and clustered o'er
With Eshcol grapes, a purple store.
XIV
Fruit is My glory, and I smiteThe boughs in which I most delight,
To make them glorious in My sight!
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