The Weaver My life is but a weaving Between my Lord and me; I cannot choose the colours, He worketh steadily. Oft-times He weaveth sorrow, And I, in foolish pride forget He sees the upper, And I the under side. Not till the loom is silent And the shuttles cease to fly, Shall God unroll the canvas And explain the reason why. The dark threads are as needful, In the Weavers skillful hand, As the threads of gold and silver In the pattern he has planned. He knows, He loves, He cares - Nothing this truth can dim; He gives the very best to those Who leave the choice with Him. Rest in Peace Dear Aneel David Kannabhiran
Posted on: Wed, 23 Apr 2014 03:54:29 +0000