Mighty are the days of labor,
Fewer are the days of rest,
We march toward the grave
With a working man’s hand,
Aft the day we relinquish the breast.

Our dreams are the treasure
That we harbor,
And nourish so deeply within,
They are the working man’s analgesia,
Disguising forlorn chagrin.
For our world bestows reward
In curious fashion,
To the pampered spoils
Of dying clans,
And often leaves the coffers empty,
For the finest of the working man.

Arise, ye men of honor,
And know that the Lord
Sees you with loving eyes.
You are the fruit of His loving hand,
A simple man, made wise.
Lust not for temporal pleasure;
For solace makes not a home there,
Do that which you know
In your heart to be true ,
And in the end,
It is you who is spared.

With body broken,
But spirit filled with an endless joy,
Gaze at night upon the heavens,
And imagine the universe as it unfolds.
Envy not the privileged,
Who with blinded eyes cannot see,
The boundless comfort we hold in our hearts,
In a world made for you and me.