Benjamin Malachi Franklin, around 1930
The weaver
My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaveth steadily.Not an advertisement, but looks like it
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
Will God unroll the canvas
And reveal 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
He knows, He loves, He cares;
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him.