My life is but a weaving – Between my Lord and me, I cannot choose the colors – He weaveth steadily.
Ofttimes 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 reveal the reasons why.
The dark threads may be needful – in the skillful weavers hand
As the thread of gold and silver In the pattern He has planned.