Between my God and me,

I do not choose the colors,

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 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.