My life is but a weaving, between my God and me.
I let Him choose the colors—He worketh steadily.
Oftimes He worketh sorrow and I, within my heart,
Forget He sees the pattern while I see only part.
The dark threads were as needful in the Weaver’s skillful hand,
As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He had planned.
Not till the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why. (Anonymous)
As this beautiful poetry expresses, mortality is necessarily full of light and dark threads if it is to work its Christ-like changes in us. Few passages of scripture contain as memorable an illustration of this reality than Moses’ account of young Joseph sold into Egypt.