My life is like a weaving
between my God and me
I do not choose the colors
he works steadily
Sometimes he weaves sorrow
and I in foolish pride
Forget he sees the upper
and I the underside
Not ’til the loom is silent
and the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
and reveal 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