My life is but a weaving

Between the Lord and me.

I cannot choose the colors;

He worketh steadily.

Oftimes 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,

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 His very best to those
Who leave the choice with Him.

(I discovered the “new to me” last verse on the Internet.)

~~~ author unknown