He made the best of this

On the tenth of December, my grandfather died.

After the cortege collected us, we drove him up past Edinburgh's Pentland Hills to the crematorium and I held my grandmother's hand in the car. I resolved myself, for her, that not before we arrived there would I cry. As we crested a hill a woman on foot stopped to bow her head to him and make on herself the sign of the cross, and this kindness and compassion in the heart of a stranger was what most tested my resolve as we drove.

An honest man here lies at rest
As e'er God with his image blest.
The friend of man, the friend of truth;
The friend of Age, the guide of Youth:
Few hearts like his with virtue warm'd,
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd:
If there's another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.