"Life is a song we must sing with our days, A poem with meaning more than words can say;A painting with colors no rainbow can tell, A lyric that rhymes either heaven or hell.The pain and the longing, the joy and the moments of life,Are the rhythm and rhyme, The free verse of the poem of life." -Michael Card
The glint of the sun on a rose;
Of life, these are the warp and the woof,
The weaving that everyone knows.
Now grief with its consequent tear,
Now joy with its luminous smile;
The days are the threads of the year-
Is what I am weaving worthwhile?
What pattern have I on my loom?
Shall my bit of tapestry please?
Am I working with gray threads of gloom?
Is there faith in the figures I seize?
When my fingers are lifeless and cold,
And the threads I no longer can weave,
Shall there be there for men to behold
One sign of the things I believe?
God sends me the gray days and the rare,
The threads from His bountiful skein,
And many, as sunshine, are fair.
And some are as dark as the rain.
And I think as I toil to express
My life through the days slipping by,
Shall my tapestry prove a success?
What sort of a weaver am I?
Am I making the most of the red
And the bright strands of luminous gold?
Or blotting them out with the thread
By which all men's failure is told?
Am I picturing life as despair,
As a thing men shudder to see,
Or weaving a bit that is fair
That shall stand as the record of me?
"The Weaver" by Edgar Guest