The Weaver

THE WEAVER

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Written 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.