Sackcloth Weaver

In silence sits the Sackcloth Weaver, midst shadows, in some lonely room.

In turmoil with his concentration, the contradiction with that of which he looms.

Who is He that gave him such purpose? Whose threads are they that he does bear?

“Tis but just Sackcloth?” His heart does question. What need would have me take such care?

Few things are rarely more costly than pearls. Or what be more delicate than lace or fringe?

“It is thee”, said He to the Sackcloth Weaver, ” Your life and will, yielded and bequeathed. ” Woven humbly in the weavers beam.

His Words Are Like Candy. Jennifer