Ninety-nine roses grow in the meadow
Watered, nurtured, kissed by the sun
Made perfect, without blemish.

The pride and joy of the poor farmer
Sold in the market to the lovely young bachelors
Lively ladies squeal with delight.

But there lies
One left
In the field.

Not perfect enough
Did’t stand just right
Did’t fit in.

This is the one the farmer can afford
To give to his sick wife
Who is dying.

He washes away the dirt from his face
Puts on his Sunday best
And brings it to her.

She smiles
And with her last breath
Inhales the fresh scent of the countryside.

And he knows
That he saved the prettiest rose
For the most perfect One
Of all.