The Weaver

My life is but a weaving
Between 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 underside.
Not til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly,
Will God unroll the canvas
And reveal the reasons 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 choose to walk with Him.

Grant Colfax Tuller (1869-1950)