My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me. I cannot choose the colours He weaveth steadily. Some times He weaveth sorrow; And I in foolish pride Forget He sees the upper And I the underside. Not ’til the loom is silent And the shuttles cease to fly Will God unroll the canvas And reveal the reason why. The dark threads are as needful In the weaver’s skilful hand As the threads of gold and silver In the pattern He has planned He knows, He loves, He cares; Nothing this truth can dim. He gives the very best to those Who leave the choice to Him Retold by Corrie Ten Boom
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Blog of HeartHere we pick out the tiny details in everyday lives - stitches in a tapestry which make sense when we pause and stand back Archives
July 2018
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