The Weaver

My life is but a weaving,
Between My lord and me.
I may not choose the colours,
He knows what they should be.

For He can view the pattern,
Upon the upper side.
While I can see it only,
On this the under side.

Sometimes he weaveth sorrow,
Which seemeth strange to me:
But I will trust His judgement
And work on faithfully.

‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
He knows just what is best,
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave Him the rest

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 weavers skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern he has planned.

Author – Unknown