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 but I the under side.
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 needed in the Weaver's skillful hand,
as threads of gold and silver in the pattern life has planned.
Benjamin Malachi Franklin
Thanks for sharing that Annie. I know the poem and it has helped me in times of grief. I have never seen it so beautifully illustrated though :)
ReplyDeleteNiamh
Glad you enjoyed seeing it here and thanks for the compliment, Niamh!
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