The Weaver    B. M. Franklin (1882-1965)

My life is just a weaving

Between my Lord and me

I cannot choose the colours

He weaves so skilfully

Sometimes He weaveth sorrow

And I in foolish pride

Forget He sees the upper

And I the underside

Not till the loom is silent

And the shuttles cease to fly

Will God unroll the canvas

And explain the reasons why

The dark threads are as needful

In the Weaver's skilful hands

As the threads of gold and silver

In the pattern He has planned