My shell is heavy, my shell is hard.
My shell is scratched and chipped and marred.
I look at the heavens and the beautiful sky.
I look at the birds that fly so high.

I see the deer - so graceful - so quick.
The rabbit, the squirrel, the baby chick.
Each moving or soaring or running fast.
Each following a role in which he was cast.

Poor me - I keep saying - it's becoming a habit.
Why couldn't I have been a squirrel or a rabbit?

In life I too must fill a roll.
How else can I gain peace of soul?
Why should gifts continually taunt?
What I do not have, do I really want?

My life is not for scurry or race.
But accepting myself...what ever the pace.
A special ideal to be moving toward.
Oh, please remember - I'm coming Lord.
With scratches and scars and heavy weight.
I'm coming Lord, I won't be late.

Lord, you say "There is no race".
You've willed my life - my awkward pace.
Whatever the turmoil, together we'll cope.
For I do accept, I believe, and I hope.

My soul can soar - and all is well.
I accept myself; I accept my shell.
It matters not the road I trod.
What matters alone - is the will of God.

1976 - Author Anonymous