By: Rachel Wrathall
This life is made of threads of time,
with sticks and stones they intertwine.
It pulls you up and down, you see,
It pokes and prods, “Please set me free,”
The thread is coarse and rough, “and please,”
you say to the Tailor who sees,
“oh stop, desist, no more I say!”
We can’t see, but if we obey:
He’s making us garments golden,
soft comforting words embolden.
Whispering words sure come gently
“Trust in me” he says intently.
Faith in his plan will heal our hearts.
In the form of hope, fear departs.
Don’t be tempted to look behind,
What’s ahead is beyond a find.
The Tailor asks a lot, that’s true,
to weave and poke and prod us through
But if we have strength to molden
he’s making us garments golden