RE est orare:
We, black-visaged sons of toil,
From the coal-mine and the anvil And the delving of the soil,-- From the loom, the wharf, the warehouse,
And the ever-whirling mill,
Out of grim and hungry silence Raise a weak voice small and shrill;-- Laborare est orare:
Man, dost hear us?
God,
He will.
We, who just can keep from starving Sickly wives,--not always mild:
Trying not to curse Heaven's bounty When it sends another child,-- We who, worn-out, doze on Sundays O'er the Book we strive to read,
Cannot understand the parson Or the catechism and creed.
Laborare est orare:-- Then, good sooth, we pray indeed.
We, poor women, feeble-natured,
Large of heart, in wisdom small,
Who the world's incessant battle Cannot understand at all,
All the mysteries of the churches,
All the troubles of the state,-- Whom child-smiles teach "God is loving," And child-coffins, "God is great":
Laborare est orare:-- We too at His footstool wait.
Laborare est orare;
Hear it, ye of spirit poor,
Who sit crouching at the threshold While your brethren force the door;
Ye whose ignorance stands wringing Rough hands, scamed with toil, nor dares Lift so much as eyes to Heaven,-- Lo! all life this truth declares,
Laborare est orare;
And the whole earth rings with prayers.
