With a resolute heart and cheerful? Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble’s a ton, or a trouble’s an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it.
And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what’s that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It’s nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there – that’s disgrace.
The harder you’re thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn’t the fact that you’re licked that counts; It’s how did you fight and why?
And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could;
If you played your part in the world of men, Why the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he’s slow or spry,
It isn’t that fact that you’re dead that counts,
But only how did you die?
Now the second one I have chosen for your pleasure is of a different sort. It is hard to explain why I admire it. Have you ever felt like you were not part of the crowd and not appreciated by the crowd you so loyally served? I too often have been in those shoes. I have loved the people and organizations I have tried to serve. They have not always loved me in return. I have felt like the loyal dog who is sometimes beaten by his master but always fed by him. How do you express a deep seeded pain from wounds which sometimes don’t heal but you still must keep them hidden? Like Lancelot in Camelot, I have carried the wounds of a warrior not inflicted on myself, but by the ones whom I have served. I have wished to be able to let those „masters‟ know how deeply they have wounded me but have not had the courage nor the words to do so. In The Fool’s Prayer I have found solace.
THE FOOL'S PRAYER
Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)
The royal feast was done; the King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"
The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the Monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose: “O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!
“No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin: but Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
“‟Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
‟Tis by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
“These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.
“The ill-timed truth we might have kept– Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say–
Who knows how grandly it had rung!
“Our faults no tenderness should ask.
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders – oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
“Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!”
The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, “Be merciful to me, a fool!”