AT THE END OF THE GAME.
Reading edition
When I have heard the Final Umpire’s call Ring out across the diamond of my strife That ends the little game which we call life, I shall not care about the score at all, How well I fielded, how I hit the ball; Nor all the cheering and the tumult rife, Nor shouts of scorn that once cut like a knife— These shall not matter in the endless pall; These shall not matter on that final day When life’s game passes with the setting sun, If I but hear the Mighty Umpire say: “The records show no pennant you have won, No brilliant average that brings you fame; Yet you go up, because ‘you played the game.’”
“Come, enter quick,” St. Peter then replied;
“Heaven’s joys to such as you are not denied.”