This poem talks about a tapestry- the sheet your grandma probably has knitted on. It has a picture on one side, in threads, but on the underside is a hopeless mess of strings. It gives me great hope in living for eternity:

My life is but a weaving, between my Lord and me.I cannot choose the colors, He workith steadily.

Oft times He weavith sorrow, and I in foolish pride,Forget that He seeth the upper and I the underside.

Not till the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly,Will God unroll the canvas, and explain 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.

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