The Weaver
My life is but a weaving.
Between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colors.
He worketh steadily.
Ofttimes he weaveth sorrow,
and I in foolish pride,
forget He sees the upper.
And I, the underside.
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 needful,
in the Weaver's skillful hand.
As the threads of gold and silver,
in the pattern He has planned.
Corrie ten Boom
1 comment:
You had to go and post a Corrie ten Boom poem...now I have to read "The Hiding Place" again! lol
Great poem!
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