O’ how sweet this Vine that gives
‘Tis not pretty yet the branch lives
And look at its fruit how very sweet
What life is here, we must all eat
What of those with no fruit
It looks to me they’ll be cast in fire
Never to more they will expire
What became of them — why did they die?
It must be they did not abide.
This vine it seems gives life a plenty
Though it is not very pretty
A branch must long — it must desire
To be grafted in to never tire
But so it is with restless hearts
Some cannot see this Vine is ours.