See how the fruitless fig tree stands
Beneath the owner’s frown;
The axe is lifted in his hands,
To cut the cumberer down.
Year after year I come, he cries,
And still no fruit is shown;
I see but empty leaves arise;
Then cut the cumberer down.
The axe of death at one sharp stroke,
Shall make my justice known;
Each bough shall tremble at the shock
Which cuts the cumberer down.
Sinner, beware—the axe of death
Is raised, and aimed at thee;
Awhile thy Maker spares thy breath;
Beware, O barren tree!