The Internet Poetry Archive


The Weaver

Madeline Whaples Blaylock


My life is but a weaving, between my God and me,

I do not choose the colors, He worketh steadily.

Ofttimes 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 skillful weaver's hand

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

He knows, He loves, He cares,

Nothing this truth can dim.

He gives His very best to those

Who leave the choice with Him.

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