My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colors
Nor all the pattern see.
Sometimes He chooses 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
Will He reveal the pattern
Or tell 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.
Author Unknown
