Friday, March 4, 2016

The Weaver

The Weaver by Benjamin Malachi Franklin is one of my favorite poems and it was reprinted at the very beginning of My Name is Mahtob by Mahtob Mahmoody. That very instant, I knew we could be friends. Poetry is like that.

My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors-
He knows what they should be.

For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.

Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgement
And work on faithfully.

'Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave Him to the rest.

Not 'til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver's skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.


Faith E. Hough said...

Mark's mother was a weaver, and a few days after she died of cancer, Mark's dad found this poem among her things. It felt like she was telling us not to worry.

Mirka Breen said...

This is the way it feels to me, too. <3

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Anonymous said...

What a beautiful poem, thanks for sharing!

Jenni said...

I've never heard of this poem before, but this is how things seem to me, especially when life doesn't make sense. God always has a plan.

Vijaya said...

Faith, that's got to be comforting! And I don't think I know a single person who makes their own cloth or carpet. I used to be fascinated watching the women make lace in Belgium. It looked so complicated and I don't know how they managed to make such intricate designs. My mother could knit anything ... ah, the lost arts.

Mirka, Marcia and Jenni, I love it when a writer captures what I feel in my heart!