The Weaver My life is but a weaving, Between the Lord and me. I cannot choose the colors, He worketh steadily. Oft times He weaveth sorrow, And I in foolish pride, Forget He sees the upper,
Bloody, broken, bruised, and branded, Fractured ribs, the punch has landed. Battered, wounded, twisted legs, "Let me go!" the victim begs. Now doubled over, spitting teeth, His mother screams, consumed with grief.