Thinking about the dark glass I wrote about yesterday, and the way my thoughts have gone over the past few days reminded me of another item in a similar vein.
The Weaver:
My life is but a weaving
between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colours
he worketh steadily.
Oftentimes he weaveth sorrow
and I,in foolish pride
Forget that he sees the upper,
and I the under side.
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 skilful hand
as the threads of gold and silver
in the pattern he has planned.
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