The Weaver
My life is just a weaving,
Between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colors
He weaveth steadily.
Often times He weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the UPPER,
And I the underside.
Not till the looms are silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why,
The dark threads were as needful
In the Weavers skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern he has planned.
He knows - He Loves - He cares
Nothing this truth can dim;
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice with Him.
