Author: attr. to Florence M. Alt, bef. alt. attr. to Grant C. Tullaralt.
My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me;
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily.
Sometimes He weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper,
And I the under side.
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.
My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me;
I see the seams, the tangles,
But He sees perfectly.
He knows, He loves, He cares,
Nothing this truth can dim;
He gives His very best to those
Who chose to walk with Him.
