Pomum Sanctum
Look! Here is a red-ripened apple—
A weight of coolness, firm upon our hand,
Its speckled roundness nestled in our palm,
Complete, alive, though far from parent tree.
No fruit so common, we might pass it by,
But look again—what man could craft this thing?
Sufficient in itself, replete with being;
From ancient wood it came, yet is not wood:
From sun and rain and quickened soil below,
And the mind of Him who makes the seasons change.
And let the earth bring forth its plants by kind,
That yield their fruit, in which their seed is found.
And so it was; He saw that it was good.
Observe once more our common apple here,
This blessing from the Giver of good gifts—
Now lift its sun-blushed side, draw in its scent,
That lilting note of harvest-season past.
It laughs, as merry children in the fields,
As crystal foam on weary worker’s cup.
As though in golden autumn afternoons
We found ourselves, so is our vision now,
Encompassed by this hale aroma’s breath.
And unto Him the priest shall yield the whole,
And offering make, a savor sweet unto the LORD,
And so it was; He saw that it was good.
This offering we accept, partake its gift,
Yet stay—consumed, destroyed— cannot but show
Irreverence? Blaspheme we the Giver through the gift?
But marvel in His benefice to us:
Yea, rise, and take and eat, let hearts be glad;
I give to you the bounty of the land.
A crunch—the juice betwixt our teeth—He laughs above.
Thus glad and reassured, we revel long
In nectar’s joyous riot ‘cross our tongue
Both clean and clear as fragrant harvest’s wine,
The fruit of scores of amber afternoons,
Their slanting sunbeams light-made sweetness now.
It bursts rejoicing from a thousand cells,
In streams of living water, giving life.
Though broken, crushed, the fruit gives us itself,
Yet keeps itself, its glory in the gift.
But He was slain for our offenses vile,
And He was crushed for our iniquity,
Yet joyful be, for He has overcome the world;
And so it is; He sees that it is good.
Our eating done, we wait a while and muse:
The apple’s core remains; its flesh is gone.
Though but a minute’s time we relished it,
Yet in that moment felt its simple joy,
And held its worth far more than lavish feast.
Such common substance wraps a greater grace
Than we could merit. We only can receive—
Not earn—this fruit here broken for our food,
A marvel crushed to grow more glorious good.
So cast this core away; this broken husk
Fulfills its purpose even still in death.
Though we consume its substance, even so
We yield it honor—green the ground we choose
And soft the soil, by still and gentle streams,
To cover death with earth, that one day hence,
Bright life shall rise from darkly clinging clay
In resurrection’s dawn, as years advance
And living leaves of green salute the day.
The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit and always green:
The trees of Nature fruitless be,
Compared with Christ the apple tree.
And so shall be, for He has called it good!
Genesis 1:11-12, Leviticus 1:9, Numbers 33:53, Isaiah 53:5, Matthew 26:26, John 16:33
