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The Weaver

My life is but a weaving, between my God and me,
I do not choose the colors, He worketh steadily.
Ofttimes 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.

He knows, He loves, He cares,
Nothing this truth can dim.
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COMMENTS
Phyllis 08 August 2020
this is a poem written by Corrie Ten Boom
0 0 Reply
Debojyoti 05 August 2019
I want question and answer of the poem
0 2 Reply
Ahmedur 18 September 2018
Needs analysis of the poem weaver
2 0 Reply

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