The Weaver

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 til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
 
The dark thereads 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 with Him.
                  --- author unknown

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