By Grant Tuller
My life is like a weaving
Between my God and Me
I do not choose the colors;
He worketh steadily.
Often times, he chooseth 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 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.
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