“The Weaver Poem”

My life is but a weaving, between my God and me,

I do not 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 is silent, and shuttles cease to fly,

Will God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.

The dark threads are a needful in the skillful Weaver’s hand,

As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.

–ANONYMOUS