Now I to My Beloved will
A song of My Beloved sing:
He hath a vineyard on a hill,
Which all the year enjoy'd the spring.
This He inclosed with a mound,
Pick'd up the stones which scatter'd lay:
With gen'rous vines plants the rich ground;
Digg'd, prun'd, and weeded ev'ry day.
To press the clusters made a frame,
Plac'd in a new-erected tow'r;
But when th' expected vintage came,
For good, the grapes prov'd wild and sour.
You who on Judah's hills reside,
Who citizens of Salem be,
Do you the controverse decide,
Between My vineyard judge, and Me.
Though partial, judge. Could I have more
To My ungrateful vineyard done?
Yet such unpleasant clusters bore,
Unworthy of the soil or sun.
Then know: This vineyard, late My joy,
Manured with such diligence,
Wild boars and foxes shall destroy,
When I have trampled down her fence.
Then shall she unregarded lie,
Undigg'd, unprun'd, with brambles spread;
No gentle clouds shall on her dry
And thirsty womb their moisture shed.
That ancient house of Israel
The Great Jehovah's vineyard is;
They who on Judah's mountains dwell,
Those choice and pleasant plants of His:
From whom He justice did expect,
But rapine and oppression found;
Thought they sweet concord would affect,
When all with strife and cries abound.