When doth a soul be sheared from life,
It’s string be cutteth short.
And scattered were about the land,
The frays of mortal sort.
A soul whom kindly pitied dead,
and sought to make amends.
He fared afar, collected thread,
and weaved a robe of ends.
The duty bore upon his back,
a coat that heaven faced.
To lead and find the misaligned,
unto the spool embraced.