I clipped this from the news paper recently, and since I consider myself a weaver I fell in love with it. The poem is by Benjamine Malachi Franklin
My life is but a weaving,
between my God and me,
I do not 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,
Will God unroll the canvas,
and explain the reasons why
The dark threads are as needful
in the skillful weaver's hand
As threads of gold and silver
in the pattern He has planned.
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