My
life is but a weaving
Between
my God and me.
I
let Him choose the colours,
He
worketh steadily.
Oft times he worketh sorrow
And
I in foolish pride,
Forget
He sees the pattern
While
I see the under side.
Not till the loom is silent
And
the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall
God unroll the canvas
And
explain the reason why,
The dark threads were as needful
In
the Weaver's skillful hand,
As
the threads of gold and silver
In
the pattern He has planned.
- Anonymous
