The Weaver

THE WEAVER 
by B.M. Franklin
(1882-1965)


My life is just 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.