Poetry

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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

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