You raise all sorts of flowers, bright splendor from the dirt;
Their beauty thanks, rewards you, in speech of fragrant words.
But when it comes to washing that hundredth smelly shirt,
Scrubbing that thousandth plate off, or picking bunny turds,
Or raking through the thicket of toys and who knows what,
Or once again erasing that pencilled backwards 5,
Or cutting food for hours, yourself oft getting cut,
Vacuum, detergent, wet wipes, grocery bags, miles to drive—
These may not seem as lovely, their fruits meager and mean;
Scarce color or sweet fragrance floats up your work to hail;
Scant thanks on earth for toils of the domestic queen,
No praises for her battle when chaos-weeds assail.
Yet eyes of higher justice, that watch the hidden things,
Observe her life of giving and see there nothing small;
For her is kept a splendor beyond the themes man sings,
Where something fair shall blossom from humble labors all.
And know you that your efforts are altered even now,
By wise and mighty wonder, to sweet resplendent bloom,
Glowing bright hues exquisite, all gathered—who knows how?—
Around the King of Heaven, His high throne to perfume.