Classic Poem

Though every nerve be strained
To fine accomplishment,
Full oft the life fall spent
Before the prize is gained.
And, in our discontent
At waste so evident,
In doubt and vast discouragement
We wonder what is meant.
But, tracing back, we find
A Power that held the ways--
A Mighty Hand, a Master Mind,
That all the troubled course defined
And overruled the days.
Some call it Fate; some--Chance;
Some--Giant Circumstance;
And some, upreaching to the sense
Of God within the circumstance,
Do call it--Providence!