The Weaver

My life is but a weaving

Between my God and me;

I cannot choose the colours,

He worketh 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,

Shall God unroll 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.


He knows, He loves, He cares –

Nothing this Truth can dim;

And He gives the best to those

Who leave the choice to Him.


Anon.