When I begin to make a miracle,
I have to fight the urge to pray for strength
and use that energy, instead, to pull
me to the starting line and walk the length
I’ve mapped out for my personal crusade
(my loving cup becomes a grail I’ve grown),
for when I later look at what I’ve made,
I want it to be mine, and mine alone.

I’ll make the effort and I’ll take the prize;
although I know the work alone could be
sufficient answer to my earnest tries,
still I will reach beyond sufficiency
to grasp the golden ring I barely touch,
for that’s the endless end I want so much.