1. Consider now, dear ones,

The life of a grapevine,

It has no easy life,

Its hardships intertwine;

Unlike wild flowers in the field

That gayly, wildly bloom,

In countless patterns up they grow,

Full liberty assume.

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2. The flowers of the vine

Are plain and small in size;

So humbly do they bloom,

Unnoticed by most eyes.

The time for blossoms is so short,

Soon into fruit they grow.

No charm is there for them to boast,

No elegance to show.

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3. So fastened to a post,

It cannot freely grow;

Up to the trellises

Its branches tied must go.

From stony soil the vine is forced

To draw its food supply;

It has no way to change its course,

Or from its hardship fly.

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4. How lovely is the green

Of Spring's beautiful scene!

So natural is its growth,

With brightness so serene.

Out of the vine's abundant life

So full and so complete,

Against the azure, branches flow

To taste the air so sweet.

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5. Behold, the master comes

His guidance to provide;

The pruning knife he brings

To strip it of its pride,

Not minding all its tender shoots,

To cleanse and cleanse again,

Till all excessive branches fall

To comply with his plan.

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6. During this time of loss,

Dare it self-pity show?

No, no, it yields but more

To him who wounds it so,

Yes, to the hand that strips it of

All glory and all pride.

The vine thus keeps the strength of life

That much fruit may abide.

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7. To hardened wood is turned

Each stump of bleeding shoot,

And each remaining branch

Brings forth abundant fruit.

Scorched by the burning sun, its leaves

Turn dry and fall away.

The fruit thus ripens more and more

Until the harvest day.

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8. Due to the fruitful load,

The branches are brought low,

The consequence of pain

And many a thoughtful blow.

In bearing clusters of fine fruit,

Comforted it must be;

But soon will come the harvest time.

The days of comfort flee.

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9. Upon the hand-picked fruit

Comes treading of the feet.

The greatest treasure lies

Where grapes and wine-press meet.

When grapes are crushed inside the press,

Red wine begins to flow,

Like surging rivers bringing joy

The earth to overflow.

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10. So barren is the vine,

Its all is spent in full,

And now its plight again

Is dreary night and woe.

No one would stoop to thank the vine

For cheering wine that's drunk;

Instead, more stripping is at hand

To make a branchless trunk.

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ll. Throughout the winter time,

Its wine gives warmth, and cheers

The shiv'ring ones whose chill

Is mixed with grief and tears.

But midst the ice and snow without,

The vine is thus to stand.

Why does it strive to bear it all?

It's hard to understand.

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12. When winter's o'er, it yearns

Once more much fruit to bear.

New shoots come forth again

To weave its garment fair.

It has no murm'ring or complaint

For winter's sore abuse.

Its all it gives, and still wills not

Its off'ring to reduce.

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13. It stretches up toward heav'n,

And breathes the fresh clean air.

Untouched by earthly joy,

Self-love it does not bear.

It smiles at sacrifice ahead,

Accepting odds once more,

As if no strokes, no stripping sore

Can it ever recall.

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14. Much sap and wine and blood

Out from its branches flow.

Does emptying itself

Cause it more poor to grow?

From it, drunkards and wanderers

Do drink and merry make.

Do they, from pleasure much, become

More wealthy when they wake?

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15. Measure your life by loss,

Never measure by gain;

Not by much wine consumed,

But wine poured out in pain.

The strength of love stands ever in

Love's sacrifice to show.

The more one suffers, then the more

True love can he bestow.

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16. He who spares not himself

Is best for God to gain;

Who hurts himself the most

Can best soothe those in pain.

Unless well-learned in being stripped,

A sounding brass is he.

Unless averse to saving self,

Ne'er can he blissful be.