And as I start to hang my head
in front of failures face,
my downward fall is broken
by the memory of a race.
And hope refills my weakened will
as I recall that scene.
For just the thought of that short race
rejuvenates my being.
A children's race, young boys,
young men,
how I remember well.
Excitement sure, but also fear
It wasn't hard to tell.
They
all lined up so full of hope
each thought to win the race
or tie for first, or if not that
at least take second place.
And
fathers watched from off the side,
each cheering for his son.
And each boy hoped to show his dad
that he would be the one.
The
whistles blew, and off they went
young hearts and hopes afire.
To win, to be the hero there
was each young boy’s desire.
And
one boy in particular
whose dad was in the crowd,
was running in the lead and thought,
“My dad will be so proud!”
But
as they speeded down the field
across a shallow dip
the little boy who thought to win,
lost his step and slipped.
Trying
hard to catch himself
his hands flew out in brace
and mid the laughter of the crowd,
he fell flat on his face.
So
down he fell and with him hope,
he couldn't win, not now.
Embarrassed, sad, he only wished
to disappear somehow.
But
as he fell, his dad stood up,
and showed his anxious face,
which to the boy so clearly said;
get up and win the race.
He
quickly rose, no damage done,
behind a bit that's all,
and ran with all his might and mind
to make up for the fall.
So
anxious to restore himself,
to catch up and to win,
his mind went faster than his legs,
he slipped and fell again.
He
wished then he had quit before,
with only one disgrace.
“I'm hopeless as a runner now,
I shouldn't try to race.”
But
in the laughing crowd he searched,
and found his father's face.
That steady look that said again,
“Get up and win the race!”
So
he jumped to try again,
Ten yards behind the last.
“If I'm going to gain those yards,
I've gotta move real fast!”
Exerting
everything he had
he regained eight or ten.
But trying so hard to catch the lead
he slipped and fell again.
Defeat!
He lay there silently;
all hope had fled away.
“So far behind, so error prone
I can't make it all the way.”
“I've
lost, so what's the use,” he thought
“I'll live with the disgrace.”
But then, he thought about his dad
who soon, he'd have to face.
“Get
up,” an echo sounded low,
‘Get up and take your place.
You weren't meant for failure here,
get up and win the race.”
With
borrowed will, “Get up,” it said.
“You haven't lost at all
for winning is no more than this;
to rise each time you fall.”
So
up he rose to run once more,
and with anew commit.
He resolved that win or lose,
at least he wouldn't quit.
Three
times he'd fallen, stumbling,
three times he rose again,
Now he gave it all he had
and ran as though to win.
They
cheered the winning runner
as he crossed the line first place
head high, and proud and happy
no falling, no disgrace.
But
when the fallen youngster
crossed the line last place,
the crowd gave him the greater cheer
for finishing the race!
And
even though he came in last
with head bowed low, unproud,
you would have thought he won the race
to listen to the crowd.
And
to his dad he sadly said
“I didn't do so well.”
“To me you won,” his father said.
“You rose each time you fell.”
And
now when things seem dark and hard
and difficult to face,
the memory of that little boy
helps me in my race.
For
all of life is like that race
with ups and downs and all,
and all you have to do to win
is rise each time you fall.
“Quit, give up, your beaten!”
They still shouted in my face.
But another voice within me says,
“Get up and win the race!”
