1 Jesus, and him crucify'd,
Is mine, I want no more;
In his wounds I'm deep inlaid;
My Name there standeth sure;
I am his, and he is mine;
My Root is in the promis'd Land;
I'm a Branch of the true Vine,
The Plant of God's Right-Hand.

2 In the lamb my fallow Ground
Was plough'd with painful Toil,
That which did with Thorns abound
Is now a nobler soil:
Christ's the Soil that's rich and good;
In him the lov'd Plantation grows;
Water'd by his heav'nly Blood,
Its Merit always flows.

3 Growing in, and twisted round
My Christ, the bleeding Vine;
On him all my Fruit is found,
Nor shall we e'er untwine:
Here true Happiness I prove,
'Tis here I've found a constant Friend,
In the glorious Man of Love,
Who loves me to the End.