There are many fruits
And many fruits of its kind
Vines are connected to a tree
And if they're not attached
The vines die
And no grapes are produced
But when vines are
Nurtured properly
And grape blooms bud
They color and ripe
To eventually make
Sweet wine
The man of the vineyard
Picks the little, round fruits
And to the littlest regard
He romoves his shoes
From his feet
A bucket is there
He pours the grapes in
And crushes the fruit
Between his toes
It seems life ends
For sweet little grapes
And it quickly ends
The man steps out
And filters the grapes
Into a small bin
He then adds water
Covers it and lets it age
Where the crushed grapes
Will be produced to wine
Our lives our like grapes
You see
We're born into the world
As little seeds
Connected the Vine
Jesus our King
Sin and circumstances
Crush our lives
But the vineyard man
Repairs us, producing wine
The finest kind
Of our darkest moment
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