Man’s life is laid in the loom of time
To a pattern he does not see,
While the weaver works and the shuttles fly
Till the doom of eternity.
Some shuttles are filled with silver thread
And some with threads of gold:
While often but the darker hue
Is all that they may hold.
But the weaver watches with skilful eye
Each shuttle fly to and fro
And sees the pattern so deftly wrought
As the loom works sure and slow.
God surely planned that pattern
Each thread – the dark and the fair-
Was chosen by his master skill
And placed in the web with care
He only, knows the beauty
And guides the shuttles which hold
The threads so unattractive
As well as the threads of gold.
Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the pattern
And explain the reason why
The dark threads are as needed
In the weaver’s skilful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern he had planned.