MY life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me ;
He chooses all the colors
And works on steadily.

Oftimes 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.