The Weaver

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The Weaver

 

My life is but a weaving

Between my God 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 shuttles cease to fly,

Shall God unroll the canvas

And explain the reasons 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.

 

He knows, He loves, He cares.

Nothing this truth can dim.

He gives His very best to those

Who choose to walk with Him.

 

By Grant Colfax Tuller

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