Sometimes He weaveth 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,
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.