This poem is dedicated to all who mourn a loss, whether it be recent or in the past.
I cannot choose the colors He worketh steadily.
Oft times He weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride
forget He sees the upper but I the under side.
Not till the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly,
shall God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needed in the Weaver's skillful hand,
as threads of gold and silver in the pattern life has planned.
Benjamin Malachi Franklin (1882-1965)
U.S. Library Of Congress, Washington DC, Card # 20060727210211