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The Weaver

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

Oft times He weaveth sorrow
   And I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
   And I the underside.

Not till the loom is silent
   And the shuttles cease to fly,
Will God roll back 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.

—B.M. Franklin