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 underside.

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.