1 God of hosts, you chose a vine
meant to bear the finest wine,
set it in a promised land,
nurtured by your careful hand:

2 Like a cedar, it grew strong
deep its roots, its tendrils long;
yet, in envy those around
stripped its branches to the ground.

3 Desolate, to God we cry:
'Spare us from the enemy!'
God of hosts, turn back again,
all such wickedness restrain:

4 Turn us too, for we have failed,
faithfulness has not prevailed;
visit, Lord, and heal your vine,
on its fruit let glory shine!

After Psalm 80, David Mowbray (born 1938)
© David Mowbray/Jubilate Hymns
7 7 7 7 Trochaic