My life is but a weaving Between my God and me. I cannot choose the colours He weaveth steadily. Oft’ times 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 Will God unroll the canvas And reveal 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. He knows, He loves, He cares; Nothing this truth can dim. He gives the very best to those Who leave the choice to Him.