THE WEAVER
My life is but a weaving
Ofttimes He weaveth sorrow,
Not till the loom is silent
The dark threads are as needful
From a sermon by Mack Lyon
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily.
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper
And I, the underside.
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
In the Weaver's skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
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