MY LIFE IS BUT A WEAVING

MY life is but a weaving

Between my Lord and me;

 He chooses all the color

And works on steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow,

And I, in blinded pride,

Forget He sees the upper,

And I the underside.

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.

Not till the loom is silent,

And the shuttles cease to fly,

Will God unroll the fabric,

And show the reason why.

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