Amid the world's bleak wilderness
A vineyard grows with promise green,
The planting of the Lord himself.
His love selected this terrain;
His vine with love he planted here
To bear the choicest fruit for him.
We are his branches, chosen, dear,
And though we feel the dresser's knife,
We are the objects of his care.
From him we draw the juice of life,
For him supply his winery
With fruit from which true joys derive.
Vine, keep what I was meant to be:
Your branch, with your rich life in me.

INVIA LE CORREZIONI