The weaver


Weaver

 

My life is but a weaving
Between my God 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 underside.

Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Will God unroll the canvas
And reveal 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 the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him.

 

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