Guest guest Posted November 15, 2005 Report Share Posted November 15, 2005 The Weaver (author unknown) My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me. I cannot see the colors; He worketh steadily. Oft times he weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside. Not till the looms are silent and the shuttles cease to fly Shall God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why The dark threads are as needful in the Weaver's skillful hand As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned. ************************************************* Narice, my heart goes out to your family. This little poem goes thro my head when ever i hear of sickness like ours. I say it to myself many times. Hope it will give you some comfort. - Hanky Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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