AT THE END OF THE GAME.
When I have heard the Final Umpire's call
Ring out across the diamond of my strife
That ends the little game which we call life,
I shall not care about the score at all,
How well I fielded, how I hit the ball;
Nor all the cheering and the tumult rife,
Nor shouts of scorn that once cut like a knife—
These shall not matter in the endless pall;
Ring out across the diamond of my strife
That ends the little game which we call life,
I shall not care about the score at all,
How well I fielded, how I hit the ball;
Nor all the cheering and the tumult rife,
Nor shouts of scorn that once cut like a knife—
These shall not matter in the endless pall;
These shall not matter on that final day
When life's game passes with the setting sun,
If I but hear the Mighty Umpire say:
"The records show no pennant you have won,
No brilliant average that brings you fame;
Yet you go up, because 'you played the game.'"
When life's game passes with the setting sun,
If I but hear the Mighty Umpire say:
"The records show no pennant you have won,
No brilliant average that brings you fame;
Yet you go up, because 'you played the game.'"
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