My life is but a weavingbetween 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 under side.
Not 'til the loom is silentand the shuttles cease to fly,Shall God unroll the canvasand explain the reason why.The dark threads are as needfulin the Weaver's skillful hand,As the threads of gold and silverin the pattern He has planned.He knows, He loves, He cares,nothing this truth can dim.He gives His very best to thosewho leave the choice with Him.
~Author Unknown
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