1. The branch that bends with clustered fruit
Still needs the pruner's blade
To keep it close to vine and root
Or else its strength will fade.
2. The spindly, twisted, tangled coil
Of branches overgrown
Produces nothing from its toil
But feeds itself alone.
3. The pruner's hook with gently play
Where fruitful growth is seen
But like an axe will slash away
The empty net of green.
4. O God, who fills with rain and sun
The grapes we press for wine,
Cut off the growth our fears have spun
And prune us to your vine.