The Two Weavers

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Oct 7, 1915

As at their work two weavers sat Beguiling time with friendly chat, They touched upon the price of meat, So high a weaver scarce could eat.

“What with my brats and sickly wife,” Quoth Dick, “I’m almost tired of life; So hard my work, so poor my fare, ’Tis more than mortal man can bear.

“How glorious is the rich man’s state— His house so fine, his wealth so great. Heaven is unjust, you must agree; Why all to him? Why none to me?

“In spite of what the Scripture teaches, In spite of what the parson preaches, This world I’ve thought, indeed so long, Is ruled methinks extremely wrong.”

Says John, “Our ignorance is the cause Why thus we blame our Maker’s laws: Parts of his ways alone we know; ’Tis all that man can see below.

“Seest thou that carpet not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun? Behold the wild confusion there! So rude the mass it makes one stare.

“A person ignorant of the trade Would say, ‘No meaning’s there conveyed; For where’s the middle? where’s the border? Why! man, thy carpet’s all disorder.’”

Says Dick, “My work is yet in bits, But still in every part it fits; Beside, you reason like a lout. Why, man, this carpet’s inside out.”

Says John, “Thou say’st the thing I mean, And now I hope to cure thy spleen: This world which clouds thy soul with doubt Is but a carpet inside out.

“As when we view these shreds and ends, We know not what the whole intends; So when on earth things seem but odd, They’re working still some scheme of God.”

“No plan, no pattern, can we trace; All wants, proportion, truth, and grace; The motley mixture we deride, Nor see the beauteous upper side.

“But when we reach that world of light And view the things of God aright, Then shall we see the whole design, And own the Workman was divine.

“What here seem random strokes, will there All order and design appear; Then shall we praise what here we spurned, For then the carpet will be turned.”

“Thou’rt right,” quoth Dick, “no more I’ll grumble That this sad world is such a jumble; My impious doubts are put to flight, For my own carpet sets me right.”

— Selected.