IKE a blind spinner in the sun,I tread my days;I know that all the threads will runAppointed ways;I know each day will bring its task,And, being blind, no more I ask.
I do not know the use or nameOf that I spin;I only know that some one came,And laid withinMy hand the thread, and said, "Since youAre blind, but one thing you can do."
Sometimes the threads so rough and fastAnd tangled fly,I know wild stormsAnd fear that IShall fall; but dare not try to findA safer place, since I am blind.
I know not why, but I am sureThat tint and place,In some great fabric to endurePast time and raceMy threads will have; so from the first,Though blind, I never felt accurst.
I think, perhaps, this trust has sprungFrom one short wordSaid over me when I was young,—So young, I heardIt, knowing not that God's name signedMy brow, and sealed me his, though blind.
But whether this be seal or signWithin, without,It matters not. The bond divineI never doubt.I know he set me here, and still,And glad, and blind, I wait His will;
But listen, listen, day by day,To hear their treadWho bear the finished web away,And cut the thread,And bring God's message in the sun,"Thou poor blind spinner, work is done."
SPINNING.
"I only know that some one came,And laid withinMy hand the thread, and said, 'Since youAre blind, but one thing you can do.'"
IKE a blind spinner in the sun, I tread my days;I know that all the threads will run Appointed ways;I know each day will bring its task,And, being blind, no more I ask.