Splintered yet certain, the dream presses forward,
chiseled from longing and hammered in flame.
Measured in echoes of footfalls uncounted,
built from the heft of a towering desire.
Each step is broken yet bends into motion,
rivers that etch their own course in the bedrock.
Not by permission but sheer repetition,
carving a path that the world must condone.
Yet hands that labor, though strong in their striving,
move where the Weaver has patterned their thread.
Man shapes the hour with sweat and with burden,
yet time is a script that the Author has read.
Dreams are no gift from a fate that is willing,
nor do they bow to the hands of the wise.
Only the faithful, the bold, and the tireless,
walk paths foreordained, yet still must arise.
Work as though triumph depends on your tendon,
fight as though all rests in courage alone.
Yet rest in the gift of the One who has spoken
every step taken was already known.
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