Poetic Interlude

A cousin of mine sent me the following poem, knowing that I also love poetry, and I thought I would share it with you. I had not come across it before. I hope I am not infringing any copyright by reproducing it, if so I apologise to those concerned. She tells me that there is some debate on the Internet as to whether or not this is the full version and she had found versions with other verses.

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 Weaver’s skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

Benjamin Malachi Franklin


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