My Vineyard

 To me at night the stars are vocal.

They say: 'Your planet's oh so local!
A speck of dust in heaven's ceiling;
Your faith divine a foolish feeling.

What odds if you are chaos hurled,
Yours is a silly little world.
'

For their derision, haply true,
I hate the stars, as wouldn't you?
But whether earth be great or little,
I do not care a fishwife's spittle;
I do not fret its where or why,--
Today's a day and I am I.


Serene, afar from woe and worry
I tend my vines and do not hurry.

I buss the lass and tip the bottle,
Fill up the glass and rinse my throttle.

Tomorrow though the earth should perish,
The lust of life today I cherish.


Ah no, the stars I will not curse:
Though things are bad they might be worse.

So when vast constellations shine
I drink to them in ruby wine;
For they themselves,--although it odd is,
Somehow give me a sense that God is.


Because we trust and realise
His love he steers us in the skies.

For faith however foolish can
Be mighty helpful to a man:
And as I tend my vines so He
With tenderness looks after me.

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