A single golden apple hangs
Upon a winter bough,
For all the fellows of its youth
Are long since fallen now.
It longs to leave the confines of
This life it lives alone
And join its comrades on the tree
That shines before God’s throne.
But God has not yet called its name,
So it must linger here.
Amid the storms of winter’s life,
It dreams of those once dear
And waits to hear the voice of God
Whispering in its ear.
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