The years accumulate; the senses dwindle;
each season saps the body’s former strength.

We, obsessed with what will give life length,
try to thread again the bobbin, twist the spindle.

The weave once tight is getting loose and slack,
the pattern, once your glory, is confused
your plan by inconsistency abused
the shuttle falters going there and back.

The garment suffers from divine neglect;
it started well, but then it came to naught.
God’s surprise, an end we never sought
our tenure finish’d! And we, so circumspect!

We depart and others start to weave
unaware how soon they, too, will leave.

Midi: Thaxted - Let Streams of Living Justice