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The Weaver
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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 under side. |
Not til 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. |
He knows, He
loves, He cares,
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives His very best to those
Who leave the choice with Him. |
Author Unknown |
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