Weaver

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 but I the underside.

Until the loom is silent, and the shuttles cease to fly,

Will God unfold the canvas and explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful in the skillful Weaver’s Hand

As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.

By Benjamin Malachi Franklin

(no, not the Benjy who flew a kite during a thunderstorm)

This particular poem is a favorite of my friend, Ariel (no, not the Little Mermaid), and in honor of the awesomeness that is her I have shared it with you.  And apparently, she discovered the poem in Corrie Ten Boom’s book, “Tramp for the Lord.”  (Ten Boom, what a far out, groovy name.)