The Weaver – Poem – Ken Paginton

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.