Classic Poem

" One thing I do; the things behind forgetting
And reaching forward to the things before,
Unto the goal, the prize of God's high calling,
Onward I press," — said that great soul of yore.

And in the heart, like strains of martial music,
Echo the words of courage, trust, and cheer,
The while we stand, half hoping, half regretting,
Between the coming and the parting year.

Behind are joys, fond hopes that found fulfilment,
Sweet fellowships, glad toil of hand and brain.
Unanswered prayers, burdens of loss and sorrow,
Faces that look no more in ours again.

Before us lie the hills, sunlit with promise,
Fairer fulfilments than the past could know,
New growths of soul, new leadings of the Spirit,
And all the glad surprises God will show.

All we have done, or nobly failed in doing,
All we have been, or bravely striven to be,
Makes for our gain, within us still surviving
As power and larger possibility.

All, all shall count; the mingled joy and sorrow
To force of finer being rise at last:
From the crude ores in trial's furnace smelted
The image of the perfect life is cast.

" Onward I press, the things behind forgetting
And reaching forward to the things before:"
Ring the brave words like strains of martial music
As we pass through the New Year's opened door.