My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He works so steadily.
At times He weaves in 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 tapestry,
And explain the reasons why.
The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver's skillful hand,
As threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
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Written By Spentheart@AOL.com 2001 to 2005 All Rights Reserved
