The Weaver

My life is but a weaving

Between my Lord and me;

I cannot choose the colors

He worketh steadily.

Oftimes He weaveth sorrow,

And I, in foolish pride,

Forget He sees the upper

And I the under side.

Not til the loom is silent

And the shuttles cease to fly

Shall God unroll the canvas

And explain the reason why;

The dark threads are as needful

In the Weaver’s skillful hand

As the threads of gold and silver

In the pattern He has planned.

He knows, He loves, He cares;

Nothing this truth can dim.

He gives His very best to those

Who leave the choice to Him.

~ Author Unknown