NEARING THE GOAL

WITH eyes aflame, with panting breath, they come,—

The runners,—every nerve and muscle tense,—

Urged forward by a thousand deafening cries,

On, on, they rush, when one, close to the goal,

For but one moment glances back in pride

To note how far he hath outrun the rest.

Alas! tripped by a pebble on the course,

He stumbles, falls, arises, but too late,—

 Another sweeps ahead with blood-flecked lips

And bursting heart! One final, awful strain,

With superhuman effort, grand, supreme,

He leaps into the air,—and falls in death

Across the line,—a victor, but at what

A fearful cost!—he gave his life, his all!

I ponder o’er this tragedy of days

When Greece was mistress of the world, and say,

“Hart not thou also entered on a race,

My soul, in contest for a ‘Crown of Life,’

A prize thou canst not win except thine all

Thou givest! Then, be wise, and watch and pray,

Turn not thine eyes one instant from ‘the mark,’

For fear thou dash thy foot against some small,

Well-rounded truth, which in thy pride thou hast

O’erlooked, and thus thou stumble, fall, and though

Thou shouldst arise, ‘twould be too late to win I”

“Ah. then, consider thy ‘forerunner,’ Christ,

Yea, call to mind the ‘cloud of witnesses’

 Around,—those noble, faithful ones of old.—

  And strip thyself, my soul, of every weight:

Gird up thy loins, make straight paths for thy feet;

Breathe deeply of the Spirit’s conquering power,

And run with patient, meek, enduring zeal!

Almost thou hast attained, my soul, my soul!

Shall angels, principalities, or powers,

Or height, or depth, or other creature, draw

Thee from the goal so near? Ah! yes, so near,

The glory-light streams through the parting veil;

Have faith, press on, one effort, grand, supreme,—

And thou hast won in death Love’s blood-bought crown!”

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