My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me,
I cannot choose the colours He works so steadily.
Oft times He weaves in sorrow, and I, in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.
The dark threads are as needed in the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.
Not till the loom is silent, and the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.
At the Scent of Water Linda Nichols