My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colors he worketh steadily.

Oft times he weaveth sorrow and I in foolish pride
Forget he sees the upper and I the underside.

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.

Not till the loom is silent and the shuttle cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.