WEAVINGS OF LIFE
Weavings
My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me.
I may choose the colors
But He knows what they should be.
For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I see it….
Only on the underside.
Sometimes He weaveth sorrow
Which seemeth strange to me
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.
Tis He who fills the shuttle
For He knows what is best
And I shall weave in earnest
And leave with Him the rest.
At last when life has ended
With Him I shall abide
Then I may view the pattern
Upon the other side.
Then I shall know the reason why
Pain with joy entwined
Was woven in the fabric of life
That God designed.
--Shawnee Kellie
~~~~~~
The shuttles of His purpose move
To carry out His own design;
Seek not too soon to disapprove
His work, nor yet assign
Dark motives, when, with silent tread,
You view some somber fold;
For lo, within each darker thread
There twines a thread of gold.
Spin cheerfully,
Not tearfully,
He knows the way you plod;
Spin carefully,
Spin prayerfully,
But leave the thread with God.
(~Canadian Home Journal)
The Tapestry Weaver
LET US TAKE to our heart a lesson, no braver lesson can be,
From the ways of the tapestry weavers, on the other side of the sea.
Above their head the pattern hangs, they study it with care,
And as to and fro the shuttle leaps their eyes are fastened there.
They tell this curious thing besides, of the patient, plodding weaver;
He works on the wrong side evermore, but works for the right side ever.
It is only when the weaving stops,
and the web is loosed and turned.
That he sees his real handiwork, that his marvelous skill is learned.
Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty! It pays him for all its cost.
No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost!
Then the Master bringeth him golden hire and giveth him praise as well,
And how happy the heart of the weaver is, no tongue but his can tell.
The years of man are the looms of God,
let down from the place of the sun,Wherein we all are weaving,
till the mystic web is done,
Weaving blindly but weaving surely, each for himself his fate;
We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait.
But, looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath need to fear;
Only let him look clear into Heaven—the perfect Pattern is there.
If he keeps the face of the Saviour
forever and always in sight,
His toil shall be sweeter than honey, and his weaving is sure to be
And when his task is ended, and the web is turned and shown,
He shall hear the voice of the Master; it shall say to him, “Well done!”
And the white-winged angels of heaven, to bear him thence shall come down,
And God shall give him gold for his hire—
not coin, but a crown!
(~Anson G. Crester)
Tapestry of My Life
I wonder what the other side will be,
when I have finished weaving all my thread.
I do not know the pattern, nor the end
of the great piece of work which is for me.
I only know that I must weave with care
the colors that are given me day by day,
and make of them a fabric firm and true
which will be of service for my fellow man.
Sometimes the colors are so dull and gray.
I doubt if there will be one trace of beauty there,
but all at once there comes a thread of gold or
rose so deep that there will always be
that one bright spot to cherish or to keep,
and maybe against its ground of darker hue
it will be beautiful.
The warp is held in place by the Master’s Hand.
The Master’s mind the design for me.
If I but weave the shuttle to and fro and blend the colors
just the best I know,
perhaps when it is finished He will say,
"Tis good,”and
Lay it on the footstool of His Feet.
(--Author Unknown
)
Tapestry Of A Man’s Creed
I believe that God created me to enjoy the blessings of life,
to be useful to my fellow-beings,and
An honor to my country.
I believe that the trials which beset me today are but the fiery tests by which
my character is strengthened, ennobled, and made worthy to enjoy the
higher things of life, which are in store for me.
I welcome these trials.
I believe that my soul is too grand to be crushed by defeat:
I will rise above it.
I believe that I am the architect of my own fate; therefore, I will be master of
circumstances and surroundings, not their slave.
I will not yield to discouragements.
I will trample them under foot and make them serve as stepping-stones to success.
I will conquer my obstacles and turn them into opportunities.
My failures of today will help to guide me on to victory on the morrow
The morrow will bring-- New strength, new hopes,
new opportunities, and new beginnings.
I will be ready to meet it with
a brave heart, a calm mind, and
An undaunted spirit.
In all things, I will do my best, and leave the rest to the Infinite.
I will not waste my time in idle waiting:
I will not waste my mental energies in useless worry.
I will learn to dominate my restless thoughts and
look on the bright side of things.
(--Anonymous.)
The Tapestry
A missionary was traveling in the Far East when he came across a booth in a market place
It was a tapestry maker’s booth. As he walked by he saw a strange sight.
There appeared in the tapestry almost by magic ,
and the missionary asked his guide for an explanation.
“The man you see,” said the guide, “Is a master weaver. He is speaking to his apprentice
behind the loom telling him what color thread to use and where to put it.
Only the weaver knows the entire design, so it is vital that the apprentice do
exactly as the master commands.”
“Does the apprentice ever make a mistake?’ asked the missionary.
“Of course. But the weaver is a very kind man in this case and he will rarely have the boy tak
out the thread. Instead, being a great artist, he simply works the mistake in the design.”
How much that is like our God. We cannot see the pattern of the tapestry God is weaving.
We are on the other side of the loom looking at knotted threads placed seemingly without purpose. Occasionally we can catch a glimpse of the design, but then as soon as we think we have it pegged the Master calls for a thread which changes every thing.
So, we have to trust the Master Weaver that He knows what He is doing.
And like the apprentice, we, too make our mistakes. We put in a red thread instead of a violet one.
We knot it in the wrong place or place it crookedly.
And God in His mercy doesn’t upbraid us
But takes our own mistakes and
Make them part of the design.
(~Author Unknown)
It Is Only A Tiny Rosebud,
A flower of GOD’S design;
But I cannot unfold the petals
With these clumsy hands of mine.
The secret of unfolding flowers
Is not known to such as I.
GOD opens this flower so sweetly,
When in my hands they fade and die.
If I cannot unfold a rosebud,
This flower of GOD’S design,
Then how can I think I have wisdom
To unfold this life of mine?
So I’ll trust in Him for His leading
Each moment of every day.
I will look to Him for His guidance
Each step of the pilgrim way.
The pathway that lies before me,
Only my heavenly Father knows.
I’ll trust Him to unfold the moments,
Just as He unfolds the rose.
Hands to Serve
My hands can serve as He served-
To raise someone who has fallen…to support someone
Who is weak…to uphold someone who is weary.
To wipe a tear…to hold a hand…to give a cup of water;
To embrace…to carry a burden…to impart a blessing.
Jesus, use my hands.
Feet to Follow
My feet can walk as He walked-
To guide the way of the traveler…to show the way to the seeker…
To make the way for the follower;
To walk in meekness…to serve in lowliness…
To obey with happiness. To remain faithful…
To move in quietness…to abide in His rest.
Jesus, guide my steps.
A Heart to Love
My heart can love as He loved-
To will the highest good of others…to desire the best for others…
To honor; esteem and value others;
To be bread to the hungry…to be drink for the thirsty…
To be light for those who need to seethe way.
To be whole…to be pure…to be overflowing.
Jesus, fill my heart.
“Take My Life And Let It Be”
TAKE my life, and let it be
Consecrated, Lord, to Thee.
Take my moments and my days;
Let them flow in ceaseless praise.
Take my hands, and let them move
At the impulse of Thy love.
Take my feet, and let them be
Swift and “beautiful” for Thee.
Take my voice, and let me sing
Always, only, for my King.
Take my lips, and let them be
Filled with messages from Thee.
Take my silver and my gold;
Not a mite would I withhold.
Take my intellect, and use
Every power as Thou shalt choose.
Take my will and make it Thine:
It shall be no longer mine.
Take my heart; it is Thine own,
It shall be Thy royal throne.
Take my love; my Lord, I pour
At Thy feet its treasure—store.
Take myself, and I will be
Ever only, ALL for Thee.
(Frances Ridley Havergal)
“If any man serve me, let him follow me...(John 12:26)
Prepare my heart for serving,
Let my spirit heed Your call;
In obedience to the Father,
Our Lord and King of all.
Fill my thoughts with You, Lord,
Renew my mind today…
I give You full control,
In the things I do and say.
Take these hands You gave me,
And use them for Your good…
To glorify Your Kingdom,
In the ways I know I should.
Remove all doubt with in me,
Lord, I trust You’ll find a way,
To mold me in Your image…
As I walk with You today.
(Author Unknown)
Stay My Hand
Stay my hand, Father, help me to not sin.
Stay my hand, Father, keep my mind on You.
Stay my hand, Father, do not let me begin
To think of the evil that my mind wants to do.
Stay my hand, Father, that I might do your will.
Stay my hand, Father, to think on all things good.
Stay my hand, Father, and help me to instill,
Only Your will, not mine, only You could.
Stay my hand, Father, teach me to see,
Stay my hand, Father, teach me to be
Stay my hand, Father, show what You want from me,
Teach me to be Father, teach me to be.
Stay my hand, Father, and teach me from above,
Stay my hand, Father, and teach me Your love.
Stay my hand, Father, show forth the Dove,
Teach me Your love, Father, teach me Your love.
Stay my hand, Father, teach me to pray,
Stay my hand, Father, get it out of the way.
Stay my hand, Father, that I might learn,
More of Jesus, more clearly each day.
Stay my hand, Father, that I may see Him,
Stay my hand, Father, and let me begin.
Stay my hand, Father, that I might give all I am,
To my Savior, Jesus, only to Him.
(~Author Unknown~)
The Commission
I asked the Lord to help my neighbor,
And carry the gospel to distant lands,
And to comfort the sick, but He said to me,
“If you love Me, be My hands.”
I asked the Lord to go to the dying,
And the orphan on the street
And visit the prisoner, but He said tome,
“If you love Me, be My feet.”
I asked the Lord to look to the poor,
And watch over each babe that cries,
And see each man’s need, but He said to me,
“If you love Me, be My eyes.”
I asked the Lord, “I want to serve You,
But I don’t know where to start.”
“To love is the answer”, He said to me
“If you love Me, be My heart.”
(~G.Shirie Westfall - Copyright 199)
Just One Day
If I could live to God for just one day,
One blessed day, from rosy dawn of light,
Till purple twilight deepened into night.
A day of faith unfaltering, trust complete,
Of love unfeigned and perfect charity,
Of hope undimmed, of courage past dismay,
Of heavenly peace, patient humility—
No hint of duty to constrain my feet,
No dream of ease to lull to listlessness,
Within my heart no root of bitterness,
No yielding to temptation’s subtle sway,
Methinks, in that one day would so expand
My soul to meet such holy, high demand
That never, never more could hold me bound
This shoveling husk of self that wraps me round,
So might I henceforth live to God alway.
(~Susan Gammons)
Thankful For Unanswered Prayers
I thank Thee, Lord, for mine unanswered prayers, unanswered save Thy quiet, kindly, “Nay.”
Yet it seemed hard among my bitter cares that day.
I wanted joy, but thou didst know that sorrow was the gift I needed most,
and in its mystic depth I learned to see
the Holy Ghost.
I wanted health, but thou didst bid me sound the secret treasures of pain
and in the moans and groans my heart oft found Thy Christ again.
I wanted wealth; ‘twas not the better part; there is a wealth with poverty oft given, and
Thou didst teach me of the gold of heart, best gift of heaven.
I thank Thee, Lord, for these unanswered prayers, and for Thy Word the quiet kindly “Nay.”
‘Twas thy withholding that lightened all my cares that blessed day.
(Unknown)
MYSELF
I have to live with myself, and so
I want to be fit for myself to know.
I want to be able, as days go by,
Always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don’t want to stand with the setting sun,
And hate myself for things I have done.
I don’t want to keep on a closet shelf
A lot of secrets about myself,
And fool myself, as I come and go,
Into thinking that nobody else will know
The kind of a man I really am;
I don’t want to dress up myself in sham.
I want to go out with my head erect:
I want to deserve all man’s respect;
But here in the struggle for fame and pelf
I want to be able to like myself.
I don’t want to look at myself and know
That I’m bluster and bluff and empty show.
I can never hide myself from me;
I see what others may never see;
I know what others may never know;
I never can fool myself, and so,
Whatever happens, I want to be
Self-respecting and conscience free.
(~Edgar A. Guest)
A Christian man’s life is lain in the loom of time
to a pattern which he does not see,
but God does; and his heart is in the shuttle.
On one side of the loom is sorrow,
and on the other is joy;
and the shuttle, struck alternately by each,
flies back and forth carrying the thread,
which is white or black as the pattern needs;
and in the end, when God shall lift up the finished garment,
and all its changing hues shall glance out
it will then appear that the dark and deep colors
were as needful to beauty as the bright and high one.”
(~Henry Ward Beecher
“And when God, who sees all and wishes to save us, upsets our designs,
we stupidly complain against Him, we accuse His providence.
We do not comprehend that in punishing us,
in overturning our plans and causing us suffering,
He is doing all this to deliver us,
To open the Infinite to us.”
MY DAILY CREED
Let me be a little kinder!
Let me be a little blinder
To the fault of those about me;
Let me praise a little more;
Let me be, when I am weary,
Just a little bit more cheery;
Let me serve a little better
Those that I am striving for.
Let me be a little braver
When temptation bids me waver;
Let me strive a little harder
To be all that I should be;
Let me be a little meeker
With the brother that is weaker;
Let me think more of my neighbor
And a little less of me.
Let me be a little sweeter;
Make my life a bit completer
By doing what I should do
Every minute of the day;
Let me toil without complaining,
No humble task disdaining;
Let me face the summons calmly
When death beckons me away.
(~Copied)
The Loom of Time
Man’s life is laid in the loom of time
To a pattern he does not see,
While the weavers work and the shuttles fly
Till the dawn of eternity.
Some shuttles are filled with silver threads
And some with threads of gold,
While often but the darker hues
Are all that they may hold.
But the weaver watches with skillful eye
Each shuttle fly to and fro.
And sees the pattern so deftly wrought
At the loom moves sure and slow.
God surely planned the pattern;
Each thread, the dark and fair,
Is chosen by His master skill
And placed in the web with care.
He only knows its beauty,
And guides the shuttles which hold
The threads so unattractive,
As well as the threads of gold.
Not till each loom is silent,
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God reveal the pattern
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads were as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
For the pattern which He planned.
(~Unknown)
THE WEAVER
A weaver sat by the side of his loom
A-flinging the shuttle fast,
And a thread that would last till the hour of doom
Was added at every cast.
His warp had been by the angels spun;
And his weft was bright and new,
Like thread that the morning uprays from the sun,
All jeweled over with dew.
And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed flowers
In the rich, soft web were bedded;
And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours,
Not yet were Time’s feet leaded.
But something there came slow stealing by,
And a shade on the fabric fell;
And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly;
For thought has a wearisome spell.
And the thread that next o’er the warp was lain
Was of a melancholy gray;
And anon I marked there a teardrop’s stain
Where the flowers had fallen away.
But still the weaver kept weaving on,
Though the fabric all was gray.
And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves were gone,
And the gold threads cankered lay.
And dark, and still darker, and darker grew
Each newly woven thread,
And some were of a death-mocking hue,
And some of a bloody red.
And things all strange were woven in,
Sighs, down-crushed hopes and fears;
And the web was broken and poor and thin,
And it dripped with living tears.
And the weaver fain would have flung it aside,
But he knew it would be a sin;
So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied,
A-weaving those life cords in.
And as he wove, and weeping, still wove,
A tempter stole him nigh;
And with glowing words to win him strove,
But the weaver turned his eye—
He upward turned his eye to Heaven,
And still wove on-on-on!
Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven,
And the tissue strange was done.
Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed,
And about his grizzled head,
And gathering close the folds of his shroud,
Laid him down among the dead.
And after, I saw in a robe of light
The weaver in the sky;
And angel’s wings were not more bright,
And the stars grew pale, it nigh.
And I saw ‘mid the folds all the iris-hued flowers,
That beneath his touch had sprung.
More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours,
Which the angels have to us flung.
And wherever a tear had fallen down
Gleamed out a diamond rare,
And jewels befitting a monarch’s crown
Were footprints left by care.
And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh
Was left a rich perfume,
And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky
Shone the labor of sorrow and gloom.
And then I prayed: “When my work is done,
And the silver cord is riven,
May the stain of sorrow the deepest one,
That I bear with me to Heaven.”
(~Fanny Forrester)
THE WEAVER
Ceaselessly the weaver, Time,
Sitting at his mystic loom.
Keeps his arrowy shuttle flying;
Every thread anears our dying—
And, with melancholy chime,
Very low and sad withal,
Sings his solemn madrigal
As he weaves our web of doom.
“Mortals!” thus he, weavings, sings
“Bright or dark the web shall be,
As ye will it, all the tissues
Blending in harmonious issues,
Or discordant colorings;
Time the shuttle drives; but you
Give to every thread its hue,
And elect your destiny.
“God bestowed the shining warp,
Fill it with as bright a woof;
And the whole shall glow divinely,
As if wrought by angels finely,
To the music of the harp,
And the blended colors be
Like perfected harmony,
Keeping evil things aloof.
“Envy, malice, pride, and hate—
Foulest progeny of sin—
Let not these the weft entangle,
With their blind and furious wrangle,
Marring your diviner fate;
But with love and deeds of good
Be the web throughout endued.
And the perfect ye shall win.”
Thus he singeth very low,
Sitting at his mystic loom;
And his shuttle still is flying—
Thread by thread anears our dying,
Grows our shroud by every throw;
And the hues of woe or heaven
To each thread by us are given,
As he weaves our web of doom.
(~William H. Burleigh)
( The Poems of “The Weaver” were Taken from the book
“The Best Loved Poems of the American People)
