My life is but a weaving Between the Lord and me, I cannot choose the colors- He worketh steadily. Oftimes 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. Grant Colfax Tullar