My life is but a weaving,
between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colors,
He worketh steadily.
Ofttimes He weaveth sorrow,
and I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
And I, the underside.
Not till 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 Weaver's skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver,
In the pattern He has planned.
by Grant Colfax Tullar
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From Faith, Prayer & Tract League
Grand Rapids, MI
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