My life is but a weaving betwixt my God and me;
I do not choose the colors, He worketh steadily.
Oft times He weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.
Not till the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unfold the pattern and explain the reason why.
For 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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