My life is but a weaving, between the Lord and me;
I cannot choose the colors. He worketh steadily.
Oft times 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 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. (Anonymous)
Anonymous has always been my favorite author.