Let me sing a song for the one I love, called “My Lover and His Vineyard”: My beloved planted a vineyard on a very fertile hill. First he dug up its ground and hauled away its stones so he could plant within it the choicest of vines. He built a watchtower in the middle of it and carved a winepress out of its rock. He fully expected it to bear good grapes, but instead it produced only worthless wild grapes.
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