A Tapestry

My life is but a weaving,
between my God and me.

I do not 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.

Not till the loom is silent and
the shuttles cease to fly,

Will God unroll the canvas
and explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
in the skillful weaver's hand,

As the threads of gold and silver
in the pattern He has planned.

-anon.-