The Divine Weaver

My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me
I cannot choose the colours
He worketh steadily

Oft times He weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He seeth the upper
And I the under side

Not til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reasons 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

I don't know who wrote this poem. I don't know why they wrote it. And I don't know why we had this cross-stitched and hanging above our toilet most of my growing-up years. But something about the simplicity of it strikes me. It's really the only poem I have memorized, and that's probably because I spent so much time staring at it while sitting on the toilet.