The years of man are the looms of God, let down from the place of
the sun,
Wherein we are weaving ever, 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 Savior forever and always in sight
His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his weaving is sure to be
right.
And when the work is ended, and the web is turned and shown,
He shall hear the voice of the Master; it shall say unto him, “Well
done!”
And the white-winged angel of heaven, to bear him thence shall come
down;
And God shall give him gold for his hire--not coin but a glowing
crown.
(Text.)
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