The Lost

People push past in a terrible fury,
Most of them anxious and in a hurry,
Some frantic as they run to and fro,
Not knowing when or where to go.
All are busy, too tired to smile,
Too winded to walk the extra mile.
Their legs are burning from trying to run;
Feet pound and echo in darkness. Done
With the race and the prize that they’ve lost,
The runners give up without counting the cost.
They wander, helpless and alone,
Until they collapse to the ground with a moan.
But—we have the strength to press on,
To run where the others before us have gone.
Our prize shines on the hill of eternity, blessed.
Where we’ll be received into heaven, and rest.