1 The Lord into his vineyard comes,
Our various fruit to see;
His eye, more piercing than the light,
Examines ev'ry tree.

2 Tremble ye sinners, at his frown,
If barren still ye stand;
And fear that keenly-wounding axe,
Which arms his awful hand.

3 Lord, we adore thy sparing love,
Thy long-expecting grace:
Else had we low in ruin fall'n,
And known no more our place.

4 Succeeding years thy patience waits;
Nor let it wait in vain:
But form in us abundant fruit,
And still this fruit maintain.