My life is but a weaving,
   between my God and me,
I do not choose the colors,
   He worketh, steadily,
Ofttimes He weaveth sorrow,
   and I in foolish pride,
Forget He sees the upper,
   and I the underside.
Not till 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.
      ~ Anonymous

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