Saturday, February 2, 2013

The Weaver

My life is but a weaving
 Between my Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors
 HE worketh steadily.

Oft times HE weaveth sorrow
 And I in foolish pride
Forget HE see 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.
                                 ~copied

3 comments:

Debbie J said...

I enjoyed your poem post and it reminded me of what a pastor used to tell us, that our lives are like a beautiful tapestry. The back is knotted and messy, but the front is beautiful. We can't see the front for now.

Granny Annie said...

My mother was a weaver and all of the older great grandchildren are pictured seated next to her at the loom. She did such lovely work and I treasure every piece I own that she poured full of love.

Pen Pen said...

That is a pretty poem, a good reminder of His hand in our lives, always.