Now he makes a stand, looks upon it again and
again; he looks also here and there, above and below; and if, after
all this seeking, he finds nothing but leaves thereon, then he
begins to cast in his mind how he may know this tree next year, what
stands next it, or how far it is off the hedge; but if there be
nothing there that may be as a mark to know it by, then he takes his
hook and giveth it a private mark, saying, Go thy way, fruitless
fig-tree, thou hast spent this season in vain.
Yet doth he not cut it down--"I will try it another year; may be
this was not a hitting season." Therefore he comes again next year
to see if now it have fruit; but as he found it before, so he finds
it now, barren, barren, every year barren; he looks again, but finds
no fruit. Now he begins to have second thoughts. How, neither hit
last year nor this! Surely the barrenness is not in the season, sure
the fault is in the tree; however, I will spare it this year also,
but will give it a second mark; and, it may be, he toucheth it with
a hot iron, because he begins to be angry.
Well, at the third season he comes again for fruit, but the third
year is like the first and second, no fruit yet; it only cumbereth
the ground. What now must be done with this fig-tree? Why, the Lord
will lop its boughs with terror; yea, the thickets of those
professors with iron.
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