Just a Weaver
by Benjamine Malachi Franklin

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.

(Hanna's class had to memorize this poem and I thought the words were so true that I wanted to share it on my blog. It's simple but poignant.)