The Weaver

This poem was stenciled on one of the walls of a church we went to in Texas. I came across it again recently, and was reminded of how true the words are.

The Weaver

My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaves so skillfully.

Sometimes He weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.

Not ‘til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And explain the reasons why-

The dark threads are as needful,
In The Weaver’s skillful hands
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

written by B.M. Franklin
(1882-1965)