The scoffer calls the apple green--
the earth unripe, too hard, too tart--
and claims that it must ever be
until, like Granny Smith,
it grows too old, too rotten,
and is cast into the compost heap.
For never have the wicked tasted,
seen, how gold-delicious is the Lord.
Never have they heard the gala
that will play when yet the gard'ner
comes at harvest-time into the orchard.
How red will show the apple then--
the earth now wrapped in golden fire.
Heav'n, like teeth, will sink
into the rind:
juice, like living water, streaming forth.
