Thursday, April 22, 2010

The Weaver

My Life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colors;
He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow,
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the under side.

Not til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the Weaver's skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

He knows, He loves, He cares,
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives His very best to those
Who leave the choice with Him.

~Author Unknown~

(Doing an online search reveals various editions of this poem. Most editions do not contain the last stanza, so it was probably not part of the original poem - though it is a welcome addition to me.)

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