Up from the vineyards of Timnath
A young lion came one day—
The flesh in its strength and beauty­—
And roared as he sought his prey.
Snarling and growling from hunger
He moved down life’s dusty road,
And roared as he saw a Christian
Alone and near no abode.

The Christian stood without weapons,
No carnal strength did he know,
But clothed with Jehovah’s power
He fearlessly met the foe.
The lion of flesh then gathered
All powers that he could bid,
But the Spirit was triumphant
And rent him as though a kid.

A helpless heap by the roadside
The vanquished young lion lay;
Under the hot, eastern sunshine
His beauty turned to decay.
His roar became but an echo
The Christian at times could hear
As he journeyed on to Timnath­—
God’s love casting out all fear.

The sun continued its shining;
The flesh all rotted away
Exposing a dried-out carcass
Where the honey bees came to stay.
Bees make no honey in lions
That roar in the flesh and cry,
Nor still in dead lions rotting,
But in carcasses bleached and dry.

Often returning from Timnath,
The Christian now homeward bound,
Turns off from the dusty roadside
Where a place of spoil is found,
And humbly gathers sweetness
Where his roaring flesh once died,
Enough for himself and others
From a carcass bleached and dried.