There's An Endearing Labourer Who Works All Day Poem by Mark Heathcote

There's an endearing labourer who works all day.
Like he were a happy slave.
He'd nail and hammer.
He'd paint and dig
He'd swing his pickaxe and wheel his shovel.
As if it were God's decree
And he did it all with zeal.

He was a vagabond without any friends.
But he didn't seem to mind.
Not even the insects in the field
His pockets were empty, but his soul
His soul was as full as it could be.

There's this endearing labourer who works all day.
Who's never looking over his shoulder?
Who's never heavy-eyed or tired?
Who whispers to me?
What can make you melancholy?
You're in good health and you're strong.
Nothing ails you but the morning dew.
What is wrong with you?
Is there nothing that pleases you?

There's this endearing old labourer who works all day.
He'd give you his shoes.
He'd give you his clothes even if it's cold.
And grin with a smile.
That'll make you feel like you're a sickly changeling.
He'd give you his bed and even his house if he had one.
He'd give you his last meal and look at you.
Like, you are a -fool—a fool who'll not be with us for long.

There's an endearing labourer who works all day.
Like he were a happy slave.
Right now he's working on digging your grave.
Praising the Lord, he's been saved.
Right now he's working a plough.
Singing with zeal
How he hasn't a worry in his head.
Oh, how good must that feel?
So why am I here still crying to die?