I am a careless weaver Who works with dazzled eye:Amid the fields I wander, And I leave my threads awry For God alone to ply.
And then, at night returning, With feet unshod and lame,The foulness of my raiment, Thorn-rent and marked with shame, Burns through me like a flame.
What garment have I woven To hide lest He be wrothAnd all my soul be naked? Be this poor shred of cloth For lavender or moth,
Here, take who will the tissue: It is not spun of gold,The web is coarse as sackcloth, Rough-edged and ill to hold. I walk not silken-stoled.
