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Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Just a Weaver

Benjamin Malacia Franklin

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 foolish pride,
forget He sees the upper,
and I the underside.

Not till 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 skillful weavers hand
as 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 leave the choice with Him.

1 comment:

ailicre said...

i like this poem. *nods*