I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser.
In Him is pure peace and pure life and none lesser.
In Him is everlasting and nothing's even better.
His Word is not a chore list, it's an eternal Love letter.

He prunes every branch that abides and Him and bears fruit
He seeks the ones that chose the path of endless pursuit
Of His face, His will, a branch who chooses to go all out
A life greatly lived, a life who can't live while Him without.

Every branch in me that does not bear fruit He takes away
A happy illusion, a path of the gold-plated astray.
But to a dismay, without the roots a branch goes dry
Thrown to the ground, iuyet picked up but thrown to the fire.

The branch whog stay true to the Vine pleases the Vinedresser
Who calls out to Him amidst the thorns, despite the world's pleasure
With so much fruit a branch has no better sign
When trampled by life would produce the finest wine.