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To him belongs the world that can impart
Hope to the hopeless wretched lying low,
And who can sooth and heal a broken heart
And seek redress for suffered ill and woe.
To him belongs the world who can reject
The social pressures of the modern elf,
And does not care to be politically correct,
But knows his value and remains himself.
To him, or her who will renounce and lash,
The wait for comments that will never come,
But starts his song and tune again afresh,
Remaining rollicking and frolicsome.
To him that keeps on working without guile,
Thrice blessed is the rhapsodist that learned
To meet lampooning critics with a smile
And can by stinging nettles not be burnt.
Who’ll dry the sweat from agonizing brows.
And raises up hope’s banner high unfurled,
And plants a kiss upon the leper’s mouth.
To him or her alone belongs the world.
Resists constraints to be somebody else.
But unperturbedly cultivates his turf;
Who knows to find life-giving water wells
And on high ocean waves can learn to surf.
To him that will be seated without shame
With hobos in the banquet’s gallery.
Who can renounce the spurious thrills of fame,
But values zest and spontaneity.
To him, who for good humor has a mind,
And spurning hurdles, tries to do his best,
Who can in lowliest shells the pearl find.
And trusting, - waits for God to do the rest.
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