My life is but a weaving
between my God and me.
I cannot see the colors;
He worketh steadily.
Of times he weaveth sorrow,
and I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper,
and I the underside.
Not till the looms are 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 Weavers skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
in the pattern He has planned.
