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

I cannot choose the colors: He worketh steadily.

Often times He weaveth sorrow and I, in foolish pride,

Forget He sees the upper and I, the underside.

Not ‘til the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly,

Shall God unroll the canvass and explain  the reason why.

The dark threads are 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 His very best to those who leave the choices with him.