The Road-Runner

I do not run the final lap
In relay race of life;
Encourager's, we don't do that –
We stir with drums and fife.

When folks grow old, or sick, or tired,
And lag behind the pack,
Or in affairs of life get mired,
Not all respond, in fact.

Sometimes that's it, there is no more,
Their racing days are done;
They face a crossing to that shore
Where they will meet the One.

It's then that we step back and let
Compassion-types step in;
Go back and other runners get
Who now our stretch begin.

It's not that we dump-truck these folks,
More like baton that's passed;
A relay-race of easy yoke,
With runners now amassed.

Encouragement has rougher times
Compassion-folks don't know;
To make a way for ending times
Midway, we must let go.

Each gift has dreams, and hopes, and fears,
Sad times, and triumphs’ days;
Yet life we give in laughter, tears,
And in the end sing praise.

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