My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colors
He weaves so steadily.

Often He weaves in sorrow
But I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I, the lower side.

But 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.

Not till the loom is silent
And the bobbins cease to fly,
Shall He unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.