My life is but a weaving, between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colors, He weaveth steadily.
Oftentimes 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 canvas and explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful in the skilled Weaver's hand
As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern he has planned.
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