To the tune of Barbara Allen (or anything 8.7.8.7.)
Come listen, love, unto my song
A song about a vineyard.
A vineyard on a fertile hill
A finely cared for vineyard.
My love he dug and cleared the stones.
He planted only good vines.
A tower to watch over it,
A vat and press to make wine.
He thought it would yield choicest grapes
But all he got were rotten.
So judge ye well, all people here,
Why is this all he’s gotten?
***
“So I will tear down all the hedge.
The vines shall be devoured!
I’ll break the wall and tramp it down,
For giving grapes so sour.
I’ll make it waste, not prune nor hoe.
With thorns it will be covered!
Through briers thick, no rain will fall,
On this vineyard.” said my lover.
***
The vineyard is this very place.
The people are God’s planting.
God hoped for righteousness and peace,
Found bloodshed, hate, and ranting.
***
This is my song, I’ve sung it well.
And now it comes to you friends.
Seek justice, peace, and righteousness
In all the plantings you tend.
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