The Weaver

My life is just a weaving,Between my Lord and me;I cannot choose the colorsHe 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 silentAnd the shuttles cease to fly,Shall God unroll the canvasAnd explain the reason why, >The dark threads were as needfulIn the Weavers skillful hand,As the threads of gold and silverIn the pattern he has planned. >He knows - He Loves - He caresNothing this truth can dim;He gives the very best to thoseWho leave the choice with Him.