The Weaver

I sat at my loom in silence,

Facing the westering sun;

The warp was rough and tangled

And the threads unevenly run.

Impatient I pulled at the fibers—

They snapped and flew from my hands;

Weary and faint and sore-hearted

I gathered the broken strands.

I had beautiful color to work with—

White, blue like heaven above,

And tangled in all the meshes

Were the golden threads of love;

But the colors were dulled by my handling,

The pattern was faded and gray,

That once to my eager seeming

Shone fairer than flowers of May.

But, alas! Not the half of my pattern

Was finished at set of sun.

What should I say to the Master

When I heard him call, “Is it done?”

And I threw down my shuttle in sorrow

(I had worked through the livelong day)

And I lay down to slumber in darkness,

Too weary even to pray.

In my dreams a vision of splendor,

An angel, shining-faced,

With gentle and tender finger

The work of the weavers traced.

He stooped with a benediction

O’er the loom of my neighbor near,

For the threads were smooth and even

And the pattern perfect and clear.

Then I waited in fear and trembling

As he stood by my tangled skein,

For the look of reproach and pity

That I knew would add to my pain.

Instead, with a thoughtful aspect

He turned his gaze upon me,

And I knew he saw the fair picture

Of my work as I hoped it would be.

And with touch divine of his finger

He traced my faint copy anew,

Transforming the clouded colors

And letting the pattern shine through.

And I knew in that moment of waiting,

While his look pierced my very soul through,

I was judged not so much by my doing

As by what I had striven to do.