Not to the swift, the race: Not to the strong, the fight:
Not to the righteous, perfect grace: Not to the wise, the light. But often faltering feet Come surest to the goal;
And they who walk in darkness meet The sunrise of the soul. A thousand times by night The Syrian hosts have died;
A thousand times the vanquished right Hath risen, glorified. The truth the wise men sought Was spoken by a child;
The alabaster box was brought In trembling hands defiled. Not from my torch, the gleam, But from the stars above:
Not from my heart, life's crystal stream, But from the depths of Love.
