Weaver Divine Thy Matchless Skill

Weaver divine, thy matchless skill
Hath planned the pattern of my ways;
Within the fabric of thy will
I yield my residue of days.

I dwell in thy abiding care,
And find my soul’s refreshment there;
Content to trust my way to thee
Thy over-ruling plan I see.

Sombre the colours are and gay,
Varied the workings of thy hand;
I would not wish to know the way,
Nor seek thy will to understand.

Human design may cause me pain,
And test my faith through doubt and fear,
Grant me to feel thy touch again,
Thy reassuring voice to hear.

Christ of the loom, thy loving hand
Doth thread the pattern for my good;
I too would weave at thy command
Until thy will be understood.