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Dec 2017. The Master Weaver’s Plan. is Corrie ten Boom´s Favorite Quote. The Master Weaver’s Plan My life is but a weaving Between the Lord and me; I may not choose the colors– He knows what they should be. For He can view the pattern Upon the upper side While I can see it only On this, the underside. Sometimes He weaves in sorrow, Which ...
More Poems & Stories >> The Plan of the Master Weaver. The Plan of the Master Weaver . My life is but a weaving between the Lord and me, I may not choose the colors, He knows what they should be for He can view the pattern upon the upper side, while I can see it only on this, the under side… Sometimes He weaveth sorrow, which seemeth strange ...
"The Plan of the Master Weaver" Our lives are but fine weavings That God and we prepare, Each life becomes a fabric planned And fashioned in his care . . . We may not always see just how The weavings intertwine, But we must trust the Master's hand And follow His design, For he can view the pattern Upon the upper side, While we must look from ...
It was a longer poem called "Weaving" by Florence May Alt, from which this version likely originated. Thanks to the person who commented below to bring this to my attention. _____ You can follow me on Instragram to find similar visuals for this and other poems. P.S. I have left my original graphic below for those who prefer it to the smaller ...
And from the dust created man. To govern all the earth! The Father was pleased that everything. Went according to His Plan. Then lovingly created a woman. To accompany the man! He named the loved ones, Adam and Eve. His plan became fulfilled. They were designed to live forever.
Sep 20, 2016 · And the shuttles cease to fly. Will God unroll the canvas. And reveal the reason why. The dark threads are as needful. In the weaver’s 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.
Jan 19, 2015 · Here is Corrie Ten Boom’s poem: My life is but a weaving. Between my God and me.I cannot choose the colors. He weaveth steadily. Oft’ times He weaveth sorrow; And I in foolish pride. Forget He sees the upper. And I the underside. Not ’til the loom is silent.
