Web Truth

The Weaver

My life is but ‘a weaving’
Between My Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colours
He worketh steadily.

Oft times He weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper,
And I, the underside.

Not ’till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the Weaver’s skilful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.