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They all lined up so full of hope. Each thought to win that race
Or tie for first, if not that, at least take second place.
The fathers watched from off the side, each cheering for his son,
And each boy hoped to show his dad that he could be the one.
The whistle blew and off they went, young hearts and hopes afire
To win and be the hero there was each young boy’s desire.
And one boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd,
Was running near the lead and thought, “My dad will be so proud.”
But as they speeded down the hill, across a shallow dip,
The little boy who thought to win lost his step and slipped.
Trying hard to catch himself with hands flew out to brace,
And amid the laughter of the crowd, he fell flat on his face.
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, to make up for the fall.
So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and to win,
His mind went faster than his legs. He slipped and fell again.
He wished then that 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 which said again, “Get up and win the race!”
So up he jumped and tried again, ten yards behind the last;
“If I’m to win those yards,” he thought, “I’ve got to move real fast!”
Exerting everything he had, he regained eight or ten,
But trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.
Defeated ! He lay there silently, a tear dropped from his eye.
“There’s no sense 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, a loser all the way.
“I’ve lost, so what?” he thought, “I’ll live with my disgrace.”
But, then he thought about his dad, whom soon he’d have to face.
“Get up,” the 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 with a new commit,
He resolved that win or lose, at least he shouldn’t quit.
So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever be
Still, he’d give it all he had, and run as though to win.
Three times he fallen, stumbling, three times he rose again.
Too far behind to hope to win, he still ran to the end.
They cheered the winning runner, as he crossed the line, first place,
Head high and proud and happy; no falling, no disgrace.
But, when the fallen youngster crossed the finish line, last place,
The crowd gave him the greatest cheer for finishing the race.
And even though he came in last, with head held low, unproud,
You would have thought he’d won the race, to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad, he sadly said, “I didn’t do too well.”
“To me you won,” the father said, “You rose each time you fell.”