By
My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me
I cannot choose the colours.
He weaves so steadily.
Oft times He weaveth sorrow
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the underside.
Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Will God roll back the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the Weaver’s skilful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern, He has planned.
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