14. THE MOTHER OF THE DYNAMIC POWER

Thy Grace the warrior-sparks of Noon invoke,
Our fateful race awaits the starter’s stroke.
Thy Bounty sweet beyond our gaze abides;
Who will clasp first the goal thy Law decides?
From Thee we learn, in thy play divine our task.
Vanished in awe our body’s torpid mask.
To shun the world we saw not the light of day,
But to catch in our body’s line thy Vision’s Ray.