The apple tree spread wide its shade
To shield the garden from the sun;
In dappled light the Virgin prayed
That, cloud or clear, God’s will be done.

The apple blossoms frothed and fell
In pools of white about her feet,
Wing-brushed when heaven came to tell
Of earth’s release and sin’s defeat.

She trod the blossoms to the ground,
For she would bear a finer fruit
Whose flesh would make the sick grow sound
And heal the wounded world at root.

The apples on the market stall
Are tempting to the eye and tongue,
But her fruit has surpassed them all:
High praise to Christ, our life, be sung!