Web — in the grand loom of existence, we are but threads, weaving our stories into the magnificent tapestry of life. Each moment, a delicate dance of light and shadow, every emotion a hue on the. Web — the tapestry poem, often quoted by corrie ten boom, holocaust survivor and christian speaker and author. My life is but a weaving between my god and me. Webas we weave the tapestries of our lives, we gradually begin to see our designs from a wider angle of years. We may or may not be pleased with what we see. Webthe tapestry of love. Two souls entwined, love's threads woven through our hearts, a tapestry of forever. In this short poem, weaving represents the bonds of love. Just as threads are entwined on a loom, two souls are united by a profound connection. Web — encouraging allegory from corrie ten boom retold by s. Little relating our life as a weaving or a tapestry. Both good and hard times are needed for beauty. Life, an intricate tapestry woven from the threads of time, experiences, and emotions, is a captivating masterpiece that unfolds uniquely for every individual. It is a journey. Webwhen a weaver, weaves a tapestry, especially a large one they can only see a very small portion of it at a time. They cannot be concerned with what has been woven before, because it is wound around a beam and will not be seen again until the tapestry is completed and off the loom. In the photo above, the large tapestry is almost completed. Web — a common metaphor for life is a tapestry, an intricate and exquisite piece of art in which each thread symbolizes a person s experiences, relationships, and choices. This essay investigates the. Web — each of us, though, must be the weavers of our own tapestry. We must pull the yarn, tie the knots, and cut the strands—row by row—until our life here on earth is finished. In laying the foundation of earth life, a blueprint was used. God drew up the plans and wrote the specifications. Web — my life is but a weaving between my god and me. I cannot choose the colors he weaveth steadily. Oft’ times he weaveth sorrow; And i in foolish pride forget he sees the upper and i the underside. Not ’til the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly will god unroll the canvas….
