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.