 I see that I'm the apple of God's eye, but I don't feel like a sweet honey crisp these days, so I cry out to you, oh Lord, because this particular apple of your eye is trying to be pure, trying to be sweet, trying to be just, but I'm a humble creation and my kind have been found in gardens like Eden. There's some who would rather I be more like a rotten, mealy, mushy, out of season apple like the kind my kids reject when they scream for more apple daddy. For it just cause, oh Lord, attend to my cry, guard me always as to the apple of your eye.