Poem for Lent

Confiteo

While running the race I stumbled and fell

Went flat on my face, and spitting up dust,
got up on my knees as others ran past.
I’m down and out, and for all I can tell,
the race is over. I’m finished. I’ve lost.

Then another runner reached down and took
my hand. He gave me a smile and a look
that made me feel I was not last, but first.
So I rose– and determined to end the race;
Ran pure and fleet with the wind in my face.

I ran with the view that if things went wrong,
I could rise with grace, and with legs made strong.