My life is but a weaving Between my Lord and me… I may not choose the colors; He knows what they should be. For he can view the pattern Upon the upper side, While I can see it only On this, the underside.

Sometimes He weaveth sorrow, Which seemeth strange to me; But I will trust His judgment And work on faithfully. ‘Tis He who fills the shuttle. He knows just what is best. So I shall weave in earnest and leave to Him the rest.

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 skillful hand As the threads of gold and silver In the pattern He has planned.