My life is but a weaving, between my God and me, <br />I do not choose the colors, He worketh steadily. <br />Ofttimes he weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride <br />Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside. <br />Not till the loom is silent, and the shuttles cease to fly, <br />Will God unroll the canvas, and explain the reasons why <br />The dark threads are as needful in the skillful weaver's hand <br />As threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned. <br /> <br />He knows, He loves, He cares, <br />Nothing this truth can dim. <br />He gives His very best to those <br />Who leave the choice with Him.<br /><br />Anonymous Works<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/weaver-the/
