Not till the loom is silent My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me, I cannot choose the colours, 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 unroll the canvas And explain the reason why The dark threads are as needful In the Weavers skillful hand, As the threads of gold and silver In the pattern He has planned. He knows, He loves, He cares Nothing this truth will dim. He gives His very best to those Who leave the choice with Him.
Posted on: Mon, 22 Jul 2013 21:55:19 +0000
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