The Sign


After long years of waste, theft and withering,

The harvest has come, bursting with sweet juice.

The grapes are clustered around curly tendrils,

Tight knit, clinging to the vine,

And yet crying out to the Gardener,

"Pick me!  Pick me! Pick me!".


The bowl overflows with the vine's gracious bounty,

Source of sweetness, streams of joy.

The vine has achieved its purpose.

Its fruit is round and mature, plucked and shared

For the blessing of the family,

A promise of better things to come


In other years, the enemies of the vine,

The birds, the rats, the searing salty winds.

Ravaged the grapes before they are ripe,

Not for their joy, but so they may destroy,

Stealing away the promise of hope,

And leaving the vine alive but fruitless.


But resurrection life was still in the vine.

In spring time it surged through the branches,

Decorating them with green finery

While baby grapes erupted into leafy nurseries

Hidden safe, close to the vine,

Guarded by the watchful Gardener


"I am the vine," said Jesus. "you are the branches."

The strong, fruit-bearing branches,

Which bear the tender grapes.

My life flows through you, and yours through me

Producing tight, richly sagging clusters,

The purpose and joy of the Father's heart.


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