The Race.

People talk about running the race,
speeding to the place,
where they know they will finally
see their Saviour face to face.
But I can't run, my body aches,
and I can't help but stray,
to some of these wide, easy roads,
that lead me from "the way".
I'm crippled, sore, I cannot do,
the things that people say,
that pilgrims on this long, hard road,
should be doing every day.
I want to run, fast to that city,
where I really want to be.
I want to ignore these stupid distractions
that always attract me.
But here I am, struggling along,
keep straying from this path.
My legs are broken, my hope is crushed,
I know I'll come in last.
But I have a friend, who brought me here.
He says he's paid for me,
so when I finally arrive,
I'll be let into the City.
He shows me along the route to take,
and helps me as I try.
And when I stop, because of my hurts,
He holds me as I cry.
I stray often from the path,
and go down paths of sin.
And yet I know they cause my hurts,
and crush my hope within.
I want to run, fast to that city,
where I really want to be.
I want to ignore these stupid distractions
that always attract me.
But my friend, he never leaves,
and when I go astray,
He leads me from the sinful roads,
and gets me back on to the way.
And so I'm struggling along,
holding tight to His hand.
And together, slowly we go on,
each step nearer to the end.
I want to run, fast to that city,
where I really want to be.
I want to ignore these stupid distractions
that always attract me.
And yet I know, deep in my heart,
that one day every knee
will bow and every heart confess
my friend is King of Kings.
This piece of hope gives me the will
to keep struggling towards
the city, where my friend the King
has everyone's rewards.
I want to run, fast to that city,
where I really want to be.
I want to ignore these stupid distractions
that always attract me.
I know because of my friend's love
the end of this path will come,
and my pain and sorrow will all leave,
as the Father welcomes me home.

By Phil Evans ©1999