My Life is but a Weaving,
Between my God and me;
I do not choose the colors,
Oftimes he weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride,
Forget he sees the upper,
And I the underside.
Not till the loom is silent,
And shuttles cease to fly,
Will God unroll the canvas,
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as
Needful in the skillful
Weaver's Hand,
As the threads of Gold &
Silver in the pattern he
has planned.
