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,
"Hast 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!"

"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!"

Poems of the Way
Gertude W. Seibert