My life is but a weaving, between God and me
I did not choose the colors, He worked steadily
Off times he weave sorrow, and I in foolish pride
He sees the upper, and I the underside
Not till the loom is silent, and the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas, and explain the reasons why
The dark threads are as needful in the skillful weaver's hand
As 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