Labor Is Prayer

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.