The Weaver

In loving memory of my dear aunt Lorena who we lost to cancer last night. She will always be one of my favorite people and I will miss her dearly. This was one of my grandfather’s – her brother’s – favorite poems.

“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 follish pride
Forget he sees the upper
And I the underside

But till the loom is silent
And the shuttle ceases to fly
Will he unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why

The dark threads are as needful
In the weavers skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern he has planned.

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