What might it feel like to be a part of the vine?
Not just to see the vineyard from afar
Or even pluck the clusters, press the wine,
But to be grafted in, to feel the stir
Of inward sap that rises from our root,
Himself deep planted in the ground of Love,
To feel a lead unfold a tender shoot,
As tendrils curled unfurl, as branches give
A little to the swelling of the grape,
In gradual perfection, round and full,
To bear with oneself the joy and hope
Of God’s good vintage, till it’s ripe and whole.
What might it mean to bide and abide
In such rich love as makes the poor heart glad?

Malcom Guite
Poet & Priest