The Weaver
My life is but a weaving,
Between the 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 underside.
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.
Not 'til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly.
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reasons why
john p.
