Years ago, when a precious cat named Doc died, I was inconsolable; before that great palliative called time could work its magic, I found the following writing. Since then, whenever pain and grief present themselves, like now, the words regain their poignancy. I thank the writer, whoever he or she was, for sharing this with us.

Correction!: I had thought the composition was written by “Unknown Weaver”; it has been brought to my attention (by a dear friend whose indefatigable curiosity propelled this quest for truth) that the writer was Grant Colfax Tullar (b. 1869 d. 1950).

The Weaver

My life is but a weaving,
Between my God and me;
I do not choose the colors,
He worketh steadily.
Oftimes He weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the underside.
Not till the loom is silent,
And shuttles cease to fly,
Will God unroll the canvas,
And explain the reason why…
The dark threads are as needful
In the skillful weaver’s hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

Grant Colfax Tullar

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