“They shall walk, and not faint.” Here is the promise that along the hard, dusty road, when loads grow heavy and there’s a dull sameness to every scene, power can belong to us not to give up, not to faint. We need strength for the long pull. In our earlier years we are convinced that the world is our cup of tea. It was made for us, and we were made for it. Someone has told of a class of college freshmen on freshmen day at a Midwestern college, carrying a huge banner at the head of the procession which said: “This college has waited one hundred years for us.” We feel that way in the morning years, but then comes the long pull. We discover that the competition for what we call success is keen. There are others who seem to have more to offer than we have. Early ideals seem rather heavy loads to carry when morning wears toward noontime. William Wordsworth, with his genius for the tenderest cadences of the language, set the thought to living meter when he wrote: “Heaven lies about us in our infancy. At length, the man perceives it die away and fade into the light of common day.” So much of our trudging is in “the light of common day,” where there is weariness, sweat, and hopes long deferred and youthful dreams that turned to dust in our hands. There is no more relevant promise God has made than this word to those who walk the ways of monotony and dullness: “They shall walk, and not faint.” The condition of the gift of these powers is a willingness to wait on the tides of God to bear us up and out on brave and glorious voyages.