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 underside.



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.



Not till the loom is silent

And the shuttles cease to fly,

Shall God unroll the canvas

And explain the reason why.