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My life is but a weaving, between my God and me
I do not choose the colors, He worketh steadily
Ofttimes he weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside
Not till the loom is silent, and shuttles cease to fly,
Will God unroll the canvas, and explain the reasons why
The dark threads are as needful in the skillful weavers'hand
As threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.
He knows, He loves, He cares
Nothing this truth can dim
He gives His very best to those
Who leave the choice with Him.
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