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 but 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 needed in the Weaver's skillful hand,
as threads of gold and silver in the pattern life has planned.