Love this old poem…a favorite of my mom’s. Author unknown
The Weaver
My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me,
I cannot 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 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.
Author
Unknown
