The loom of time

Man's life is laid in the loom of time

To a pattern he does not see,

While the weaver works, and the shuttles fly

Till the dawn of eternity.

Some shuttles are filled with silver thread,

And some with threads of gold,

While often but the darker hue

Is all that they may hold.

But the weaver watches with skillful eye

Each shuttle fly to-and-fro,

And sees the pattern so deftly wrought

As the loom moves sure and slow.

God surely planned the pattern ...

Each thread the dark and fair,

Is chosen by his master skill

And placed in the web with care.

He, only, knows its beauty,

And guides the shuttles which hold

The threads so unattractive

As well as the threads of gold.

Not till each loom is silent

And ther shuttles cease to fly,

Shall God unroll the pattern,

And explain the reason why.

The dark threads were as needful

In the weaver's skillful hand

As the threads of gold and silver

For the pattern which He has planned.