When the starters whistle blew,
At varied speeds they flew,
Each at his pace and stride,
With some trailing for the ride.
This race is short and long,
Its call is for the strong,
The race is run with mind, and might,
Like eagles soring heights in flight.
Some hit the lead, some hit the rear,
Others fluctuating with their flow,
The herd moves forth, the end draws near,
All up in ears, for the last whistle blow.
With hands raised high,
Our voices way up in the sky,
We leap as though gripped with madness,
As we hail the champ emerging with gladness.
Is life not a race, so long it seems sometimes?
Yet short it shows for real, most times,
For when last your whistle blows,
You must engage to wrap up your flows.
At end in life, it matters not,
How intense your battles were fought,
The speeds and strides your race is run,
Be in glamour, in sorrow, or in countless fun.
Of those who seek our God mighty,
His hand and his heart almighty,
In father, son and in spirit holy,
The tape shall breast in might and glory.
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