Note for contemplation

Two days ago, I visited the beach and graveyard at Bosta in Great Bernera, 30 miles west of my location in Stornoway, Isle of Lewis. A recent gravestone included the last two stanzas from the below poem, and I found it quite appropriate. Weaving, of Harris Tweed, is (or used to be) an important industry in these isles. It is in decline, and some say terminally so. Whether the deceased was a weaver is unknown to me.

This poem is dedicated to all who mourn a loss, whether it be recent or in the past.

My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me,
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