There was a small stone that was ever so black,
He forever was crying, "Alas and alack!"
I'm homely and ugly and dirty,"  he'd cry;
"I'm surrounded by stones more lovely than I."

The stones that were 'round him were perfectly blue,
A color that had a most beautiful hue,
The little black stone felt so out-of-place:
He felt next to them he was such a disgrace.

These stones all lay flat on the side of a wall,
But only the black one hoped he would fall.
Then soon came the time when he wished it no more,
For that very day he fell to the floor.

And then on the floor such a sight he could see--
A mosaic of the Virgin, The Babe on her knee.
Then it struck him so hard, with such a surprise,
That he'd been the pupil of one of her eyes.

Then soon after this came a man with a broom,
He was sweeping the floor of this great holy room;
The stone was swept along with the dust,
And into the furnace the black stone was thrust.

He'll burn and he'll burn until he has paid
For spurning the place for which he was made.
His misery is due to his dissatisfaction,
Though his was the place of greatest attraction.

By Henry ©September, 1967