The Weavers

Ruthlessly a weaver’s hands Seized life’s silken threads and fair, Rent, defiled the spotless strands,-- Wove a texture of Despair. Men then cursed and called it Fate; But the weaver’s name was--Hate.

Prayerfully a weaver toiled,-- Seeing only what God meant,-- And from ends all frayed and soiled, Wove a fabric of Content. Hearts were lifted then above; For the weaver’s name was--Love.