The Weaver

(author unknown)

My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors.
He worketh steadily.
Oft time he weaves in 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 reasons why
The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern he hath planned.

I heard this at a conference especially for addicts. My hope is that it will bless you as it has blessed me.