Zone1 The Race (an inspirational poem)

[onefour1]

THE RACE

By Dr. D.H. (Dee) Groberg

I

“Quit! Give Up! You’re beaten!”
They shout at me and plead.
“There’s just too much against you now.
This time you can’t succeed.”

And as I start to hang my head
In front of failure’s 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.

II

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 that 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 whistle blew and off they went
Young hearts and hopes afire.
To win and be the hero there
Was each young boy’s desire.

And one boy in particular
Whose dad was in the crowd
Was running near 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 to 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 it 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 mind and might
To make up for his 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 which said again:
“Get up and win the race!”

So up he jumped to try again
–Ten yards behind the last–
“If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought,
“I’ve got to 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 laid there silently
–A tear dropped from his eye–
“There’s no sense running anymore;
Three strikes: I’m out! Why try!”

The will to rise had disappeared;
All hope had fled away;
So far behind, so error prone;
A loser all the way.

“I’ve lost, so what’s the use,” he thought
“I’ll live with my 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 were not 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 a new commit
He resolved that win or lose
At least he wouldn’t quit.

So far behind the others now,
–The most he’d ever been–
Still he gave it all he had
And ran as though to win.

Three times he’d fallen, stumbling;
Three times he rose again;
Too far behind to hope to win
He still ran to the end.

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’d 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.”

III

And now when things seem dark and hard
And difficult to face,
The memory of that little boy
Helps me to win 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! You’re beaten!”
They still shout in my face.
But another voice within me says:
“GET UP AND WIN THE RACE!”

 

[1srelluc]

Endeavor To Persevere

When best-laid plans have fallen to waste
and frustration abounds in their former place,
when failure looms with doubts and fears
we must endeavor to persevere!

When dreams are shattered and hopes are dashed,
goals upon the shoals have crashed,
when gladness is but a memory dear
let us endeavor to persevere.

When sons and daughters from God rebel
and the paths they follow lead straight to hell
your fervent prayers God does not hear
pledge to endeavor to persevere.

When wracked with pain, our body worn,
youth is spent, don't be forlorn,
a better day is growing near
while we endeavor to persevere.

When all is lost, life’s' cupboard bear,
and seems like even God don't care,
His grace is sufficient in the trials and tears,
still we endeavor to persevere.

This present life is hard at best
but we must strive to complete the test
for our redemption draweth near
as we endeavor to persevere.

A restful home for us awaits,
we long to enter heaven's gates,
the promise of peace and never a tear
if we endeavor to persevere.

Christ Himself will take our hand
and guide us through this beautiful land,
the saints will tell us they're glad we're here
and that we endeavored to persevere!

-George Wootton

 

[jwoodie]

THE RACE

By Dr. D.H. (Dee) Groberg

I

“Quit! Give Up! You’re beaten!”
They shout at me and plead.
“There’s just too much against you now.
This time you can’t succeed.”

And as I start to hang my head
In front of failure’s 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.

II

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 that 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 whistle blew and off they went
Young hearts and hopes afire.
To win and be the hero there
Was each young boy’s desire.

And one boy in particular
Whose dad was in the crowd
Was running near 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 to 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 it 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 mind and might
To make up for his 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 which said again:
“Get up and win the race!”

So up he jumped to try again
–Ten yards behind the last–
“If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought,
“I’ve got to 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 laid there silently
–A tear dropped from his eye–
“There’s no sense running anymore;
Three strikes: I’m out! Why try!”

The will to rise had disappeared;
All hope had fled away;
So far behind, so error prone;
A loser all the way.

“I’ve lost, so what’s the use,” he thought
“I’ll live with my 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 were not 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 a new commit
He resolved that win or lose
At least he wouldn’t quit.

So far behind the others now,
–The most he’d ever been–
Still he gave it all he had
And ran as though to win.

Three times he’d fallen, stumbling;
Three times he rose again;
Too far behind to hope to win
He still ran to the end.

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’d 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.”

III

And now when things seem dark and hard
And difficult to face,
The memory of that little boy
Helps me to win my race.

For all of life is like that race,S
With ups and downs and all.
And all you have to do to win,
Is rise each time you fall.

“Quit! Give up! You’re beaten!”
They still shout in my face.
But another voice within me says:
“GET UP AND WIN THE RACE!”

Sounds like a combination of Invictus by William Henley and If- by Rudyard Kipling.

 

[onefour1]

To the poem "Invictus", Orson F. Whitney gave a responsive poem called, "The Soul's Captain":

Invictus​

William Ernest Henley - 1849-1903

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

The Soul's Captain
Orson F. Whitney 1855 – 1931

Art thou in truth?
Then what of him who bought thee with his blood?
Who plunged into devouring seas
And snatched thee from the flood

Who bore for all our fallen race
What none but him could bear--
The God who died that man might live
And endless glory share.

Of what avail thy vaunted strength
Apart from his vast might?
Pray that his light may pierce the gloom
That thou mayest see aright.

Men are as bubbles on the wave,
As leaves upon the tree,
Thou, captain of thy soul! Forsooth,
Who gave that place to thee?

Free will is thine--free agency,
To wield for right or wrong;
But thou must answer unto him
To whom all souls belong.

Bend to the dust that “head unbowed”,
Small part of life’s great whole,
And see in him and him alone,
The captain of thy soul.

 

[onefour1]

Here is another poem I like:

The Touch of the Master's Hand

Myra Brooks

Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile:
‘What am I bidden, good folks,’ he cried,
‘Who’ll start the bidding for me?’
‘A dollar, a dollar’; then, ‘Two!’ ‘Only two?
Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three—’ But no,
From the room, far back, a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As sweet as a caroling angel sings.
“The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, ‘What am I bid for the old violin?’
And he held it up with the bow.
‘A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?
Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?
Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,
And going, and gone!’ said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
‘We do not quite understand
What changed its worth.’ Swift came the reply:
‘The touch of a master’s hand.’
“And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A ‘mess of pottage,’ a glass of wine;
A game—and he travels on.
He’s ‘going’ once, and ‘going’ twice,
He’s ‘going’ and almost ‘gone.’
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.

 

[onefour1]

Come Follow Me' And He Went

Camp three thirty-two, the captain came through; wearing insignia bright.
'Men' he declared, 'we must be prepared - to conquer the enemy's fight.'
With a towering glare and a heart without care, he said 'men, I would like you to hear.'
'Soldier,' he said, 'get this into your head - get rid of your cowardly fear.'
So, night after night they prepared for the fight at the feet of the militant man.
'Til the soldiers were ready - their spirits were steady, and ev'ry man's though was 'I can.'
The night finally came, and name after name were called for the march of the day.
It was then that they heard the cowardly word - 'The captain is going to stay.'
Well, they left for the trek all dressed to the neck in attire designed for a fight.
But the hearts of the legion as they marched thru' the region were back in the camp in the night.
You see, as they went, they thought of the tent of a cowardly captain who stayed -
who didn't go through what he told them to do - because he was really afraid.
He easily told the men to be bold - to have courage for strength in a fight.
But he was the one, when the battle begun, who hid in the dark of the night.

Then there was the One who walked in the sun of the Galilee country of old.
A teacher was He as He walked by the sea; for His words with His actions were bold.
'Men,' He declared, 'we must be prepared to conquer the enemy's fight.'
Then He went to the hills in the power of prayer, and He prayed for the rest of the night.
It was He long ago who taught men to know, it is far more blessed to give.
Then by His example, His teaching was ample, to show men how better to live.
'Come follow me,' was His conquering plea, 'we must not give up the fight.'
'Thy Will, Oh Father, not Mine be done,' And they follow in spirit and might.
The Master Teacher wasn't a preacher who stayed in a camp in a tent.
He was the one when the battle begun, who said, 'come, follow me',
and He went.

---Andrew Reed Morrill--- January 1978

 

[onefour1]

Two Father's Day poems:

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY HEAVENLY FATHER

Our gracious Heavenly Father,
In honor of this Father’s Day…
We would like to pay you homage
In a special sort of way.

We’ve been favored with a Father
Who blesses us from up above.
Who looks past our faults and failures
To offer unconditional love.

Lord, to say that we adore You
Simply doesn’t seem enough…
Yet we know that You can see our hearts
So You already know this stuff.

We believe that Your conception
Of love goes beyond a word.
We believe You place obedience
Above all You’ve ever heard.

Your desire is for commitment
To Your cause and Your command.
Your call is for the Golden Rule
To be applied and made to stand.

Lord, we pray that we, your children,
Can meet Your expectations…
Show love for You and one another
And walk away from all temptations.

Father, help us all to honor You…
To respect and to obey.
Now, in the Name of Christ our Lord,
Have a Happy Father’s Day!

Doris Jacobs-Covington
June 2012

TO MY HEAVENLY FATHER

Heavenly Father up above
Touch me with your precious love
Teach me what I need to do
So that I may follow You.

I love You Lord with all my heart
You've been my help right from the start
Even when I strayed from You
You knew exactly what to do.

You brought me back and made me whole
You blessed me and You touched my soul
It was Your son who died for me
T'was my Lord Jesus that set me free.

Thank You Father for sending Your Son
Thank You Father for all You've done
Let Your will be done with care
Heavenly Father this is my prayer.

by Joyce Helen Moore

 

[onefour1]

The Man in the Glass

When you get what you want in your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day,
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself
And see what the man has to say.
For it isn't your father or mother or wife
Upon you whose judgment must pass;
But the verdict that counts the most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass.
You may think you're Jack Horner and chisel a plum,
And think you're a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.
He's the one to please, never mind all the rest,
For he's with you clear to the end,
And you've passed your most dangerous and difficult test
If the man in the glass is your friend.
You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be heartaches and tears
If you've cheated the man in the glass.

anonymous