I cannot wait, I cannot wait,
The grapes, though sour, oh give to me:
Or I must pluck them from the vine,
Before the clusters ripened be.

I cannot wait, I cannot wait,
Shake down the green fruit from the bough:
'Tis hard and bitter to my taste;
Yet I must eat it, Father, now.

The grapes still cling, they will not give,
To my unhallowed hasty hand;
I know that thus with gentleness,
Thou dost thy son's desire withstand.

The bough though struck with lustful force,
Will not the fruit thou gav'st let fall;
I know it hangeth closely there,
My sliding footsteps to recall.

Yes I will wait and learn of Thee,
Who giv'st each season to the year;
And unto autumn hold'st the fruit,
For him who walkest in thy fear.