THE WEAVER

My life is but a weaving
between my God and me
I do not choose the colors
He worketh steadily
Often times he weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I, the under side
Not till the loom is silent
And shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the purpose
And explain the reason why
The dark threads are as needful
in the skillful Weavers hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern he has planned