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 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 are as needful
	In the WEAVER'S skillful hand,
As the threads of Gold and Silver
	In the pattern HE has planned.


Anonymous