The Weaver

My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me;

I cannot choose the colors He worketh steadily,

Ofttimes 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 skillful hand

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

--Grant Colfax Tullar