My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me
I let Him choose the colors
He worketh steadily.
Ofttimes He worketh sorrow
And I, within my heart,
Forget He sees the pattern
While I see only part.
The dark threads were as needful
In the Weaver's skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He had planned.
Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

Anonymous