My life is but a weaving, between the Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors, He worketh steadily.
Oftimes He weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.
Not till the loom in 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 weavers skillful hand,
as the threads of gold and silver, in the pattern He has planned.
When gray threads mar life's pattern, and seem so out of line,
Trust the Master Weaver, who planned the whole design.
For in life's choicest patterns, some dark threads must appear,
To make the rose threads fairer, the gold more bright and clear.
The pattern may seen intricate and hard to understand,
But trust the Master Weaver and His steady guiding hand.
G. A. Dreher