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.