Posted: 08/03/2010 in Poems

My life is but a weaving,

between my God and me,

I do not choose the colors,

He worketh, steadily,

Oftimes He weaveth sorrow,

and I in foolish pride,

Forget He sees the upper,

and I the underside.

Not till the loom is silent,

and shuttle cease to fly,

Will god unroll the canvas,

and explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful

in the skillful Weaver’s hand,

As the threads of gold and silver

in the pattern He has planned.



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