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.