One day I stood and keenly watched
Within a quiet room –
A weaver as he sat and worked
In silence at his loom.
The shuttle passing to and fro
Propelled by skilful hands –
Was weaving to a pattern sure
A multitude of strands.
I stood behind the simple loom
But there I could not see –
The pattern of those blended strands
In perfect harmony.
No picture slowly forming there
The work of patient hands –
A coloured blur, a disarray,
A mass of tangled strands.
But then I went and stood beside
The silent weaver’s chair –
And, oh, how different was the sight
That I beheld from there!
Each thread was placed with tender care
Where only it should go –
And every thread from gold to black
With brightness seemed to glow.
And so, as days and years go by,
How oft we too are blind –
And fail to see the pattern worked
By loving hands and kind.
And yet sometimes in silent prayer
In spirit we can stand –
And watch the skilful weaver as
He weaves each single strand.
A work still uncompleted yet
‘Tis there that we can see –
A little portion of the joy
And glory that shall be.
As slowly, slowly, thread by thread,
The pattern clearly shows –
A pattern hidden oft to us
But one the Weaver knows.
We see the gold and silver threads
Have gained a brighter hue –
Because the black and sombre threads
Are interwoven, too.
No single thread could ever show
The pattern that is planned –
‘Tis only as they’re woven in
Beneath a loving hand.
So may we let Him weave our days
Until we clearly see
The pattern finished to His plan
For all Eternity.