My Life is but a weaving
Between the 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

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

He knows, He loves, He cares
Nothing this truth can dim
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him
        Author Unknown