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
