Weaving By Florence May Alt

My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me;
I may but choose the colors—
He worketh steadily.
Full oft he weaveth sorrow;
And I in foolish pride,
Forget he sees the upper,
And I the under side!

I choose my strands all golden,
And watch for woven stars;
I murmur when the pattern
Is set in blurs and mars.
I cannot yet remember
Whose hands the shuttles guide;
And that my stars are shining
Upon the upper side.

I choose my thread all crimson,
And wait for flowers to bloom,
For warp and woof to blossom
Upon that mighty loom.
Full oft I seek them vainly,
And fret for them denied—
Though flowering wreaths and garlands,
May deck the upper side.

My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me;
I see the seams, the tangles—
The fair design sees He.
Then let me wait in patience
And blindness; satisfied
To make the pattern lovely
Upon the upper side.