My life is but a weaving, between my God and me,
I do not chose the colors, He worketh steadily.
Ofttimes He weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.
Not ‘til the loom is silent, and 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!
Grant Colfax Tullar