One stitch dropped as the weaver drove
His nimble shuttle to and fro,
In and out, beneath, above,
Till the pattern seemed to bud and grow,
As if the fairies had helping been.
And the little stitch dropped pulled the next stitch out,
And a weak place was left in the fabric stout,
And a perfect pattern was marred for aye
By one small stitch that was dropped that day.

One small life in God's great plan,
How futile it seems as the ages roll,
Do what it may, or strive how it can,
To alter the sweep of the infinite whole
A single stitch in an endless web;
A drop in the ocean's flow and ebb
But the pattern is rent where the stitch is lost,
Or marred where the tangled threads have crossed
And each life that fails of the true intent
Mars the perfect plan that its Master meant.