In ignorance, man's buffeted by fate;
Driven off course by every passing wind
But though he suffers in a million ways
He cannot bring himself to look within
And while he thrashes on the threshing floor
Of outer circumstance, he cannot see
That all he does is done unto himself
And all he is, but what he chose to be.
Now all hope like a candle flickers out
In dense darkness; he finds himself alone,
Unhinged from all he knew and loved before
A stranger to himself, exiled from home.
A man is victim or savior unto
Himself, as he elects. By his own thoughts
He ascends to heaven; plunges to hell
For those are not places, but states of mind,
Determined by the use to which 'tis put.
Use it to help the ailing ones to heal
And you will find healing; use it to hurt
And you but offer pain unto yourself.
It can be but ourselves we crucify
And likewise, we alone who gently take
The savior off the cross and offer him
The only gift he needs; our gratitude
For all the endless love he really gave
Though we misunderstood. The beating heart
Of hope returns to us, faintly at first
But steadily it grows in certainty
That what we gave is given unto us
And who we save is worthy of our trust.
