It can be done · Chapter 36Know Thyself
This chapter is not translated yet. You are reading the original.
It seems impossible that human beings could endure so much until we realize that they have endured it. The spirit of man performs miracles; it transcends the limitations of flesh and blood. It is like Uncle Remus's account of Brer Rabbit climbing a tree. "A rabbit couldn't do that," the little boy protested. "He did," Uncle Remus responded; "he was jes' 'bleeged to."
Reined by an unseen tyrant's hand, Spurred by an unseen tyrant's will, Aquiver at the fierce command That goads you up the danger hill, You cry: "O Fate, O Life, be kind! Grant but an hour of respite—give One moment to my suffering mind! I can not keep the pace and live." But Fate drives on and will not heed The lips that beg, the feet that bleed. Drives, while you faint upon the road, Drives, with a menace for a goad; With fiery reins of circumstance Urging his terrible advance The while you cry in your despair, "The pain is more than I can bear!"
Fear not the goad, fear not the pace, Plead not to fall from out the race— It is your own Self driving you, Your Self that you have never known, Seeing your little self alone. Your Self, high-seated charioteer, Master of cowardice and fear, Your Self that sees the shining length Of all the fearful road ahead, Knows that the terrors that you dread Are pigmies to your splendid strength; Strength you have never even guessed, Strength that has never needed rest. Your Self that holds the mastering rein, Seeing beyond the sweat and pain And anguish of your driven soul, The patient beauty of the goal!
Fighting upon the terror field Where man and Fate came breast to breast, Prest by a thousand foes to yield, Tortured and wounded without rest, You cried: "Be merciful, O Life— The strongest spirit soon must break Before this all-unequal strife, This endless fight for failure's sake!" But Fate, unheeding, lifted high His sword, and thrust you through to die, And then there came one strong and great, Who towered high o'er Chance and Fate, Who bound your wound and eased your pain And bade you rise and fight again. And from some source you did not guess Gushed a great tide of happiness— A courage mightier than the sun— You rose and fought and, fighting, won!
It was your own Self saving you, Your Self no man has ever known, Looking on flesh and blood alone. That Self that lives so close to God As roots that feed upon the sod. That one who stands behind the screen, Looks through the window of your eyes— A being out of Paradise. The Self no human eye has seen, The living one who never tires, Fed by the deep eternal fires. Your flaming Self, with two-edged sword, Made in the likeness of the Lord, Angel and guardian at the gate, Master of Death and King of Fate!
Angela Morgan.
From "The Hour Has Struck."