My life is but a weaving,
Between the Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colors,
He worketh carefully.
Oftimes He worketh sorrow,
And I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the underside.
The dark colors are as needful,
In the Weaver’s skilful hands,
As the threads of gold and silver,
In the pattern He has planned.
Not ‘til the loom is silent,
And the shuttle cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas,
And explain the reason why.
