I attended a funeral yesterday for a gentleman in our cycling club. He was my age. On the back of the service program was printed the following poem authored by Summer Sandercox. When I read the poem, I thought about where I was, why I was there, and all the lives that were suddenly changed that week. I thought about when you are humbled at the idea of mortality, how the words in this poem take on a real meaning. I wanted to share this.
The measure of a man by Summer Sandercox:
Not how did he die? But how did he live?
Not what did he gain? But what did he give?
These are the units to measure the worth of a man as a man, regardless of birth.
Not what was his situation, but had he a heart and how did he play his God given part?
Was he ever ready with a word of good cheer, to bring back a smile, to brandish a tear?
Not what was his church? Nor what was his creed?
But has he befriended those really in need?
Not what did the sketch in the newspaper say, but how many were sorry when he passed away?