[84 words]
My life is but a weaving,
between my God and me,
I do not choose the colors,
He worketh steadily.
Of times 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.
Benjamine Malachi Franklin
Broad St. church of Christ
Scottsboro, AL