Amid the world’s bleak wilderness, a vineyard grows with promise green,
The planting of the Lord Himself, the planting of the Lord.
His love selected this terrain, His vine with love he planted here
To bear the choicest fruit for Him.
We are His branches, chosen dear, and though we feel the dresser’s knife,
We are the objects of His care.
From Him we draw the juice of life, for Him supply His winery With fruit which true joys derive.
Vine, keep what I was meant to be: your branch, with your rich

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