Saturday, 27 March 2010

The Weaver ( B.M.Franklin)

My life is just a weaving,
between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colours
He weaves so skillfully,

Sometimes 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 reason why.

The dark threads are as needfull
in the weavers skillfull hand,
as the threads of gold and silver
in the pattern he has planned.

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