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The Weaver

My life is but a weaving

Between my Lord and me.

I cannot choose the colors;

He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow;

And I in foolish pride

Forget He sees the upper

And I the underside.

Not ‘til the loom is silent

and the shuttles cease to fly,

Shall God unroll the canvas

And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful

In the Wavers skillful hand.

As the threads of gold and silver

In the pattern He has planned.

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