|
Let her sing a love song,
Unto her beloved dear;
Sing it loud also long,
So that the words are clear.
I am up on the hill,
Where the fertile vines grow;
Checking the grapes that will,
Be set for the wine to flow.
I dug removed the stones,
And planted the best vines;
Works as my body groans,
To make the choicest wines.
I build a watchtower,
And makes a new winepress;
Guarding through each hour,
Praying that God will bless.
Then I wait until ripe,
But they had turned sour;
And I complained to gripe,
I could not devour.
What more could I had done,
I did not already;
They got a lot of sun,
And rainfall was plenty.
I ask God to judge me,
Rather than my vineyard;
Bad fruit I cannot see,
Let my plead to be heard.
I waited for good grapes,
But the vineyard turned bad;
As the goodness escapes,
Making your servant sad.
I will tear down the hedge,
And will destroy the fence;
For as I will a pledge,
Since it's utter nonsense.
I will make a wasteland,
And not be pruned or hoed;
Thorns and weeds will demand,
Not to be trimmed or mowed.
Copyright © 2015 Richard Newton Sherrer
Vote for this poem
Bearing Bad Fruit
|
|
|
©2000 - 2022, Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors. Visit My Home Page | Start Your Own Poetry Site | PoetryPoem [ Control Panel ] [ Today's Poetry - ALL Poets ] [ Search ]
|
|