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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