I had this poem written on my birthday card sometime in 1992. The author was 'unknown'; yet I searched in the net for some authorship to this poem; I am not sure I found some, because the second part of this poem is attributed to B.M. Franklin. But the first part was different in the original version. But here it is, just as I received it.
Behind our lives the Weaver stands
And works His wondrous will;
We leave it in His all-wise hands
And trust His perfect skill.
Should mystery enshroud His plan
And our short sight be dim;
We will not try the whole to scan -
But leave each thread to Him.
Not until the loom is silent
And the shuttle ceases to fly
Will God unroll the batten
And explain the reason why
The dark threads were as needful,
In the Weaver's skillful hand,
As threads of gold and silver;
For the pattern He has planned.
- Unknown
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