My life is but a weaving,
Between God and me,
I do not choose the colours,
He works steadily.

Of the weaves sorrow,
And I, in foolish pride,
Forget that he sees the upper
And I the under side.

Not till the loom is silent,
And the shuttles cease to flew,
Will God unroll the canvas,
And explain the reasons why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the skillful weaver’s hand,
As thread 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.