The Vine Dresser's Hand
He marveled at their tangled growth;
How their gnarled hands were clenched around
The crosswise horizontal beam,
That held them fast, securely bound.
They wove themselves about the beam
And twisted round and round its girth,
Until the weight of all their fruit
Bent down and touched the fragrant earth.
He knew the fruit was lacking taste,
The crowded clusters dwarfed and pale;
Without the dresser's tending hand
Would not produce a fragrant ale.
The errant vines were growing wild
And would not willingly permit
The dresser's hands to cut away,
To make the trailing plant submit.
The dresser stretched his arms out wide
As if, gathering all the brambles.
He thought of a world that was growing wild,
Of a people whose lives were in shambles.
With shears in hand, he cut into the vines;
And lifted away the dead roots.
To ensure a bountiful harvest of fruit
He tended the tiny green shoots.
He shored up the branches that needed support,
And carefully wound them around
The center beam that led to the vine;
Where their nourishment could be found.
When he had finished dressing the vines,
He prophetically cried, "It is done!"
For he saw, not a vineyard, but masses of people
All grafted and pruned by the Son.
The vine dresser straightened and spoke to the vines,
"I've others, like you, to tend.
For my Father has given a vineyard to me
That's in need of the vine dresser's hand."
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