The Tapestry
My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me ;
I cannot choose the colours
He worketh steadily.
Sometimes 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 shittle cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the Weavers hand
as the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
He knows, He loves, He cares,
nothing thic truth can dim,
He gives His very best to those
who leave the choice to him.
(Author unknown)
This poem became popular when Corrie teri Boom included it I n her book named The Hiding Place.
I always associate it with a young mum Brid O Donoghue who tragically died from cancer. During her illness, Brid always like to crotchet and when I mention this to her elderly neighbour, she in turn asked me to pass on this poem to her. For Brid it proved verty much a “solace in the midst of woe."
