VINE.
Return, we beseech thee, O God of hosts: look down from heaven, and behold and visit this vine;
And the vineyard which thy right hand hath planted, and the branch that thou madest so strong for thyself.—Psalm lxxx. 14, 15.
I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman.—John, xv. 1.
Thanks to Thy sovereign grace, O God, if I
Am graffed in that true vine a living shoot,
Whose arms embrace the world, and in whose root,
Planted by faith, our life must hidden lie.
But Thou beholdest how I fade and dry!
Choked with a waste of leaf, and void of fruit,
Unless Thy spring perennial shall recruit
My sapless branch, still wanting fresh supply.
O cleanse me, then, and make me to abide
Wholly in Thee, to drink Thy heavenly dew,
And, watered daily with my tears to grow.
Thou art the truth, thy promise is my guide;
Prepare me when Thou comest, Lord, to show
Fruits answering to the stock on which I grow.
From the Italian of Vittoria Colonna.
Hast Thou not planted with Thy hands
A lovely vine in heathen lands?
Did not Thy pow’r defend it round,
And heav’nly dews enrich the ground?
How did the spreading branches shoot,
And bless the nations with the fruit!
But now, dear Lord, look down and see
Thy mourning vine, that lovely tree.
Why is its beauty thus defac’d?
Why hast Thou laid her fences waste?
Strangers and foes against her join,
And ev’ry beast devours the vine.
Return, Almighty God, return:
Nor let Thy bleeding vineyard mourn;
Turn us to Thee, Thy love restore;
We shall be sav’d and sigh no more.
Watts.