My life is but a weaving bet.
My Lord and me I cannot choose the colours,
He worketh steadily
Often times He weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget that He seeth the upper, And I the under side
Shall God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why?
"My child, the dark threads are as needful, as the threads of gold and silver is the weaver's way to let you shine
Not until the loom is silent
And the shubble cease to fly
In the pattern only He has planned
For the skillful mighty hand
Poems by
