The black sheep hung high on the cross,
Atop the crest of the blood stained hill.
Its blue blood turning red
As it meets the alien atmosphere.
Then the Shepard comes,
Pulling the swollen stakes from its feet.
Letting it loose among his flock,
He sits upon his rock to watch over them.
The black sheep's wool softening to grey,
Finally being accepted.
Then as the night passes and the day takes its first breath,
He turns slowly away,
Leaving them to his dogs protection.
From the darkness of the forest,
Comes the silent Grim.
Massive jaw snarling and black hackles raised
He creeps upon them.
His unsuspecting prey.
Still not one of them
The black sheep stands out,
A beacon to the predator.
Then the Grim is on her,
Fangs sinking deep into her neck.
Blood flowing freely once again,
The flock fleeing in fear,
The dogs to far away to help.
Then the Shepard appears,
His staff swinging swiftly down upon the monster.
But too late has he come,
The black sheep now red.
The cross regains its sacrifice.
The Grim sent cowering back to the forest,
His blood lust filled and death upon his lips.
The White Sheep turned red.