Poems (Ford)/Work is Worship

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WORK IS WORSHIP.
Toiling brothers, bowed and weary,
 Struggling 'neath life's bitter weight,
Think not idleness is honor,
 Envy not the proud and great;
  Noble is your humble lot;
  Work is worship: scorn it not.

Sigh not for the gilded glory
 That the crown or sceptre brings;
If ye rule the fields of labor,
 Ye are God-created Kings;
  Many a kingly heart may rest
  'Neath a coarse and tattered vest.

Though the worldly great may scorn you,
 Ye are men—what more are they?
 ​Have they not the same Creator?
 Are they made of finer clay?
  'T is by noble deeds alone
  That a noble soul is known.

Let the voice of prayer and labor
 Blend in one harmonious chime;
Useful works are glorious anthems,
 Toil is prayer the most sublime.
  Though ye suffer scorn and pain,
  Think not that ye live in vain.

Think of Him, the "meek and lowly,"
 When in weariness ye groan;
How He lived and toiled and suffered,
 Poor, unhonored and unknown;
  He, the universal Lord,
  Worshipped by both deed and word.

Honored be the earnest worker,
 Blessed the rough, toil-hardened hand,
While the glorious hymn of labor
 Heavenward floats from wave and land.
  Toilers, noble is your lot;
  Work is worship: scorn it not.

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