Now Renee has earned her wings and her worldly sufferings are over.
The Weaver
My life is but a weaving
between my Lord and me;
I cannot chose the colours,
He worketh steadily.
Oftentimes He weaveth sorrow
and I , in foolish pride,
forget that He seeth the upper
and I the under side.
Not till the loom is silent,
and the shuttles cease to fly,
shall God unroll the canvas
and explain the reason why
the dark hreads are as needful
in the weaver's skillful hand,
as the threads of gold and silver
in the pattern he has planned.
Anonymous
Farwell dear Renee ... wherever the light shines, a tree will grow.
