This is one of my favorite poems it makes you think about the hand you have been delt in life.
My life is but a weaving ,
Between my God and me,
I do not choose the colors,
He worketh steadily,
Oftimes He weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride
forget he see’s the upper and I the underside.
Not til 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 Weavers hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
~ Author Unknown
