Between my Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He works steadily.
Often times He weaves in 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,
Will the Lord unroll the tapestry
and explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needed
In the weavers skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.
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