My life is but a weaving,
Between my Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colours,
He worketh steadily.
Oftentimes He weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride,
Forget he sees the upper
And I the under side.
Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttle 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.
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