My life is but a weaving Between my Lord and me, I cannot choose the colors He worketh steadily.
Oftimes He weaveth sorrow, And I in foolish pride Forget He sees the upper And I, the underside.
Not till the loom in 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.
– Author Unknown