My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colours but He works on steadily.
Often times He weaves in sorrow and I in foolish pride
Forget He see the upper, and I the underside.
Nor till the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to to fly,
Does God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful as the weaver’s skilful hands,
As the threads of gold and silver on the pattern He has planned.
He knows. He loves. He cares– Nothing the truth can dim
He gives the very best to those, who leave the choice with Him.