Poems (White)/Too Tired to Pray

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TOO TIRED TO PRAY

Tell me, is it really wrong to say
That I am tired, so tired to-day?
Tired of work, and tired of play,
And tired, yes, even too tired to pray.

I have tried to be brave, good and true,
Keep up my spirits the whole day through;
But 'tis hard to keep from being blue
When you are too tired your pardon to sue.

I have cooked the meals for all of them,
And mended the clothes for Sam and Ben,
So that the boys to school I might send
To fit them to become wise, good men.

I have rocked the baby till she's asleep,
And around the house I softly creep,
Trying to tidy and dust and sweep,
And make the house so clean and neat.

I fed the bird for little Grace,
To brighten up her little pale face;
I have put some flowers in a vase,
For a happy smile to brighten her face.

My poor, wee invalid, so good and mild,
How my heart yearns over that sweet child;
The rest are merry, healthy and wild,
But the light of heaven is in her smile.

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Garden needs tending, boys haven't time,
For they have lessons, and work is behind;
The wood needs chopping, and then sometimes
Boys like to earn for mother a dime.

May's dress must be altered for the ball,
For Mary's the eldest, the pride of all;
She coaches children that on her call,
And one is now waiting in the hall.

Dinner is served to the hungry boys,
Who are bright and good, but oh! such noise.
The baby is crying for her toys,
That are broken, and thus have spoiled her joys-

The dishes are washed.—I try to rest,
But the boys have torn baby's new dress;
They were playing,—but boys, you may guess,
Are not gentle—oh, they do their best.

When I finished mending baby's dress,
I heard my sick one in deep distress;
The pain is getting quite bad, I guess;
So to sooth my child I do my best.

And when her pinched and tear-stained face
Lies pensive and sad in its usual place
Upon my breast, a sweet comfort I trace
In the love of my angel child, Grace.

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Yet there is a pile of stockings to darn;
They must be ready for Sunday morn.
Baby is cold, I must get her warm,
And put her to sleep with a long, long song.

We both fall asleep, so tired, I say,—
Me of my work, she of her play.
We have both reached the end of our day,
And I am tired, yes, too tired to pray.

As I lay my weary, worthless head
(That aches, and feels as heavy as lead)
Upon the soft pillow of my bed,
I am so tired:— my prayers are unsaid.

But I 'dreamed I saw my husband's face,
Full of yearning, love and tender grace;
His hand in mine he gently placed,
And showed me heaven in quiet haste.

I saw my dear Father sitting there,
And angels around with waving hair,
Singing hymns so sweet and clear,—
Surprised I was, but did not fear.

As he took me along so very near,
My own sad face did there appear,
And down my cheek there fell a tear,
For my poor, weak voice I could hear.

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"But I was too tired to pray," I said,
My Father heard me, and then He laid
A lovely crown upon my head:
"Wear this for prayers that are not unsaid.

"I heard your prayers, my poor, weary one;
Each moment, as the day went along,
I saw your quiet victories won;
Your prayer was finished when the day was done."