I am a stone.
Long ago my mother gave me birth.
From her molten womb in the cooling rain I took shape.
Wind and water gently washed me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And the gray mist wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the heather
And the cry of sea birds wheeling overhead.
Men found me on the mountainside,
Stripped me of my mossy cloak
And hauled me away on a cart of wood,
To be used for the glory of God.
With sharp tools and hammer blows they fashioned me
And gave me hard edges.
They stacked me high on top of other stones,
Fitted me snug and sealed me in.
Through narrow windows the bright sun colored the floor below,
And in the darkness voices rose with scented smoke,
Singing of the glory of God.
Men warred with other men, took each other’s lives,
And threw down what they had raised up.
Scorched by angry flames, I fell
From that high place to lie broken in the ashes.
Wind and water gently washed me
And smoothed my hard edges.
Through riven clouds the bright sun warmed me,
And the gray mist wove me mossy coverings.
Day after day I listened to the wind in the ruins
And the cry of sea birds wheeling overhead.
A shepherd found me in the grass
And carried me away in his arms.
He nestled me alongside other stones
To keep wandering sheep away from deadly cliffs.
Though riven clouds the bright sun warms us,
And the gray mist weaves us mossy coverings.
Day after day we listen to the wind in the heather
And the cry of sea birds wheeling overhead.
I would not have thought a stone could possess a soul, until I visited Scotland. This poem was inspired in part by a visit to the ruins of the Cathedral of Saint Andrew. I composed the poem a few months later, after a friend suggested I write an essay describing my spiritual journey through disillusionment and doubt. As I pondered this, it seemed that no essay could ever convey my bound-up thoughts and emotions, but a poem might begin to do so.
