My life is but a weaving, between my God and me;
I do not chose the colors, He worketh steadily.
Oft times He weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper, and I the under side.
Not til the loom is silent, and shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why
The dark threads are as needful in the skillful Weaver's hand
As threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.