[Upon the head of the vine, 

There is a crowning of thorns. 

The darkened skin around it, 

Where blood was surely drawn.] 

[Yet, from this wounded place, 

Now springs forth a cleansing flow

As sweet as pleasant grace, 

In heights of depths and low. ]

[The Figure of the Vine 

Will lift his hands to pray. 

His arms of golden landscape 

Will usher in the day.]

[In the echoes of time, 

His figure cast upon a cross. 

Now sunlight is his body

For not a piece of Him was lost.]

 

[The snowdrops are His sinews, 

The mist as bending bone. 

The sundust trails His footsteps

In the dance of creation tone.]

 

[His torso became the sky, 

With freckled stars upon His face. 

The purest light through pierced skin, 

A sweeping tie of tunic lace.]

 

[Once held pinned by wood and nail, 

The vine was surely healed. 

The silent Son, the source of life, 

In victory, forever sealed. ]