Labor Is Prayer

LABORARE 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.