THE WEAVER

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
And I the Underside.

Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttle 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.

Author unknown

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