The Barren Fig-Tree

I

  The church a garden is,
  In which believers stand
  Like ornamental trees
  Planted by God’s own hand!
His Spirit waters all their roots,
And every branch abounds with fruits.

II

  But other trees there are
  In this enclosure grow,
  Which, though they promise fair,
  Have only leaves to show:
No fruits of grace are on them found,
They stand but cumberers of the ground.

III

  The under gardener grieves,
  In vain his strength he spends,
  For heaps of useless leaves
  Afford him small amends:
He hears the Lord his will make known,
To cut the barren fig-trees down.

IV

  How difficult his post,
  What pangs his bowels move,
  To find his wishes cross’d,
  His labours useless prove!
His last relief is earnest prayer,
“Lord, spare them yet another year.

V

  “Spare them, and let me try
  What further means may do;
  I’ll fresh manure apply,
  My digging I’ll renew:
Who knows but yet they fruit may yield?
If not⁠—’tis just, they must be fell’d.”

VI

  If under means of grace
  No gracious fruits appear,
  It is a dreadful case,
  Though God may long forbear:
At length he’ll strike the threaten’d blow,
And lay the barren fig-tree low.