Poems (Craik)/Labor is Prayer
ABORARE 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.
LABOR IS PRAYER.
ABORARE 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, seamed 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.