The Weaver
by Grant Colfax Tullar

My life is but a weaving
betwixt the Lord and me,
I do not choose the color–
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 the shuttle 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.

He knows, He loves, He cares,
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives His very best to those
who chose to walk with Him.