The Race

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 whistle 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 sped 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 this 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, 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 up 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,

a tear dropped from his eye;

There's no sense in 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

I'll never go 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 anew commit;

He resolved that win or lose the race,

at least he wouldn't quit.

Three times he'd fallen, stumbling,

three time 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 failing, no falling, no disgrace.

But when the fallen youngster

crossed the line last place,

The crowd gave him the greatest 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.