The poem contrasts the false prosperity gospel, which ties fruitfulness to wealth and leaves souls withered, with the true vine of Christ. Prosperity preachers promise a harvest through materialism, but their branches dry up, cut off from life. Only through being born again can souls root into Jesus, the vine who offers abundant life freely, not through riches. His grace sustains, while their lies collapse, yielding a fruitful, eternal existence.

They graft their branches to a hollow stem,
Prosperity’s voices, slick and sure,
“Cling to wealth, and you’ll bear fruit,”
But their vines droop, dry, and poor.

Leaves of greenbacks, roots in gold,
A harvest promised, yet never whole,
Withered hopes beneath the sun,
Cut off from life where true sap runs.

Born again, the soul takes root,
A new shoot breaks through stony ground,
Only then can hearts entwine,
With Him who makes all life abound.

“I am the vine,” Christ gently speaks,
“Abide in Me, and thrive complete,”
No coin to pay, no riches sought,
Just love that blooms where grace is wrought.

Their stalks collapse, their boasts decay,
While Jesus’ branch lifts night to day,
In Him alone, the soul’s sustained,
A fruitful life, forever gained.

Oh, what exuberance fills the soul,
A heart made blameless, pure, and whole,
In Christ our King, we stand so tall,
Righteousness cloaks us, one and all.

Perfect in His tender gaze,
Holy through His endless days,
Saints adorned in grace divine,
Ambassadors of love’s design.

Joint heirs with the Prince of Peace,
Royalty in whom all fears cease,
Sons and daughters, crowned with care,
Of the King beyond compare.

Undeserved, these titles gleam,
Wrought by blood, a sacred stream,
Royally redeemed we rise,
Echoing joy through endless skies.