The Laborer

O, Laborer!
Some hearts ache for you
As you stand with feet buried in mud,
Digging, lifting, forever toiling,
That the tall building may grow.
If once they look upon your smile
Their pity for you will be no more;
Nor will they wonder why
This joy is in your soul.
For they will know
By the radiance of your face
That you see not the mud,
But the building as it grows.
You look up and behold
The blue of the sky,
Your heart is in your work.
You are not a toiler
Who merely spades
Clod after clod,
You are a creator,
You are like God.