Am I just a lonely painter
My brush in hand
Before an empty canvas?
The Weaver
by Benjamin Malacia Franklin
(Originally titled, "Just a Weaver")
My life is just a weaving
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot change the color
For He works most steadily.
Oft times He weaves the sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
Until the loom is silent
And the shuttle cease to fly,
Will God roll back the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the skillful Weaver's Hand
As the golden threads of silver
He has patterned in His Plan.
(Shown exactly as first published)
The Weaver
by Benjamin Malacia Franklin
(Originally titled, "Just a Weaver")
My life is just a weaving
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot change the color
For He works most steadily.
Oft times He weaves the sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
Until the loom is silent
And the shuttle cease to fly,
Will God roll back the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the skillful Weaver's Hand
As the golden threads of silver
He has patterned in His Plan.
(Shown exactly as first published)
About the Poem and its Author
Each year we receive several letters from people who believe this poem was written by one of their ancestors. Happily, the author is no longer a mystery -- thanks to Bob Corley, grandson of B. M. Franklin
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