Instruments
Today we are the fruits of yesterday
And what tomorrow shall of us demand,—
The helpless tools within the Master’s hand
To do His will and never say Him nay.
He blends our souls with iron, fire or clay,
He shapes our doom according as He planned
The scheme of life, and who shall understand
The why He gives, or why He takes away?
Somewhere the universal loom shall catch
These broken, flying threads like thee and me,
And twined with other broken threads to match
As fly the years’ swift shuttles ceaselessly,
So weave them all together one by one,
Till lo! the finished woof is brighter than the sun.