In light of the recent tragedy in Boston,
this poem came to mind…
“The Weaver Poem”
My life is but a weaving, between my God and me,
I do not choose the colors, He worketh steadily,
Oftimes He weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.
Not till the loom is silent, and shuttles cease to fly,
Will God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.
The dark threads are a needful in the skillful Weaver’s hand,
As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.
–ANONYMOUS
{Included in the book [easyazon-link asin=”B00ALLQW5A” locale=”us”]”Trusting God When Bad Things Happen”)[/easyazon-link] by Shelley Hitz}
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