The
Weaver
Author
Unknown
My
life is but a weaving
Between
my Lord and me,
I
cannot choose the colors
He
worketh steadily.
Ofttimes
He weaveth sorrow,
And
I in foolish pride
Forget
He sees the upper
And
I, the underside.
Not
till 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.
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