My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me:
I cannot choose the colors,
He worketh steadily.
Oft-times He weaveth sorrow,
and I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the under side.
Not till 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 the very best to those,
Who leave the choice with Him.
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