My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot 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 the shuttles 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.

Author Unknown

Note | One version of this poem adds these concluding lines:

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