Classic Poem

I PRAY Thee, Lord, that when it comes to me
To say if I will follow Truth and Thee,
Or choose instead to win as better worth
My pains, some cloying recompense of earth —

Grant me, great Father, from a hard-fought field,
Forespent and bruised, upon a battered shield,
Home to obscure endurance to be borne
Rather than live my own mean gains to scorn.

Far better fall with face turned towards the goal,
At one with wisdom and my own worn soul,
Than ever come to see myself prevail,
When to succeed at last is but to fail.

Mean ends to win and therewith be content —
Save me from that! Direct Thou the event
As suits Thy will: where e'er the prizes go,
Grant me the struggle, that my soul may grow.