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