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.