THE WEAVER

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My life is but a weaving

Between my Lord and me.

I cannot choose the colors

He worketh steadily.

Oftimes he weaveth sorrow,

and I in foolish pride forget,

He sees the upper

and I, the underside of it.

Not until 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 Weaver's skillful hand

As the threads of gold and silver

In the pattern he has planned.

Believe

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