My Life is but a weaving
Between my God and me
I cannot choose the
colors He weaveth
steadily.

Oft' times He weaveth
sorrow; And I in foolish
pride forget He sees the
upper And I the underside.

Not 'til the loom is
silent And the shuttles
cease to fly Will God
unroll the canvas And
reveal 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.

He knows, He loves, He
cares; Nothing this truth
can dim.
He gives the very best to those
Who leaves the choice to Him.

PSALMS 3

1 Lord, how are they increased that trouble me! many are they that rise up against me.

2 Many there be which say of my soul, There is no help for him in God. Selah.

3 But thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.

4 I cried unto the Lord with my voice, and he heard me out of his holy hill. Selah.

5 I laid me down and slept; I awaked; for the Lord sustained me.

6 I will not be afraid of ten thousands of people, that have set themselves against me round about.

7 Arise, O Lord; save me, O my God: for thou hast smitten all mine enemies upon the cheek bone; thou hast broken the teeth of the ungodly.

8 Salvation belongeth unto the Lord: thy blessing is upon thy people. Selah.