The Weaver

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 sees the upper

And I, the underside.

Not ‘til the loom is silent

And the shuttle ceases 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 treads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

He knows, He loves, He cares,

Nothing this truth can dim,

He gives His very best to those

Who leave the choice with Him.

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in

part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.—1 Corinthians 13:12