My Grandmother Wardle passed away while I was on my mission. This poem was on the back of the program at her funeral. I have seen several versions with minor changes. Most version say anonymous, one version I have says Grant Colfax Tuller.
The Weaver
My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily. [He knows what they should be]
Oftimes He weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I, the underside.
Not till the loom in 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.
- Author Unknown
My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily. [He knows what they should be]
Oftimes He weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I, the underside.
Not till the loom in 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.
- Author Unknown
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