The Weaver

I returned from the Philippines to a week of great suffering for several family members, friends, and church members. As I preached Genesis 16 last night, I did so through tears.This week, while ministering to friends in the hospital who were mourning a great loss, my suffering friend read a poem. After we'd talked a great deal, spoken Scripture together, prayed together, and wept, my friend read a poem that had always meant a lot to him, but now meant so much more. Here's the poem. I believe it's called "The Weaver." I do not know who the author is.

My life is but a weavingbetween 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 under side.Not 'til the loom is silentand the shuttles cease to fly,Shall God unroll the canvasand explain the reason why.The dark threads are as needfulin the Weaver's skillful hand,As the threads of gold and silverin the pattern He has planned.He knows, He loves, He cares,nothing this truth can dim.He gives His very best to thosewho leave the choice with Him.