I labor in the vineyard
barefoot and bare-souled
clinging to the tools I'm given
with a weak and trembling hold,
waiting to lay the world aside,
my mind on the din and clutter,
hoping for some small simple relief
in a promised world, new and better.
As my bruised knees hug the soil,
as my fingers bleed and toil,
as I tend both petal and thorn,
a seedling of new faith is born.
And as His Spirit soothes my pain,
as He cools my sweat with rain,
as His hand encloses mine,
it's easier to tend the vine.