No Time for Hating

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Today is a dreary, rainy one where I am - perfect conditions to spend a little time with you. For inspiration, I decided to delve back into the collection of writings found in the scrapbooks kept by your great, great, great, great grandfather, Joseph Benson Cottrell. It is such a treasure trove of contemplation, touching upon the conditions of life that are unlimited to era or culture. The words on every page, whether his or those of others that he admired, offer guiding principles as pertinent to today's circumstance as to that of the day they were written.

It is very much like playing Wheel of Fortune - I spin the wheel and explore whatever text where the needle lands. This time, my random selection led me to his scrapbook described as "1880-82-86." My eyes fell on the following poem. I have researched to find its author, to no avail. Perhaps Cottrell wrote it himself, but I don't think so. Authorship is not important here, it's the message.

In ours, as in any other time, the battles of contention and separation sadly rage, bringing divisions among us that seem impossible to mend. However, people of good conscience must always try.

No Time for Hating

Begone with feud! Away with strife;

Our human hearts unmating!

Let us be friends again - this life

Is all too short for hating.

So dull the day, so dim the way,

So rough the road we're faring -

Far better weal with faithful friend

Than stalk alone uncaring.

The barren fig, the withered vine,

Are types of barren living;

But souls that give, like thine and mine,

Renew their life by giving.

While cypress waves o'er early graves,

On all the way we're going.

Far better plant where seed is scant

Than tread on fruit that's growing.

Away with scorn! Since die we must,

And rest on one lone pillow;

There are no rivals in the dust -

No food beneath the willow.

So dry the bowers, so few the flowers,

Our earthly way discloses.

Far better stoop where daisies droop

Than tramp o'er broken roses.

Of what are all the joys we hold

Compared to joys above us?

And what are rank, and power and gold,

Compared to hearts that love us?

So fleet our years, so full of tears,

So closely death is waiting;

God gives us space for loving grace,

But leaves not time for hating.