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The Divine Weaver

My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colours,
He works it steadily.

Sometimes he weaves sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget that he sees the upper,
And I, the underside.

Not till 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 skilful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern he has planned.

– Author unknown

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