A Plea
Why need we newer arms invent, / Poor peoples to destroy?
Our Daily Bread
❦
Give me my daily bread.
It seems so odd,
When all is done and said,
This plea to God.
To pray for cake might be
The thing to do;
But bread, it seems to me,
Is just our due.
Give me my daily toil,
I ought to say -
(If from life's cursed coil
I'd time to pray.)
Give me my daily sweat,
My body sore,
So that bread I may get
To toil for more.
Give me my daily breath,
Through half a sob,
Until untimely death
Shall end my job.
A crust for my award,
I cry in dread:
Grant unto me. Oh Lord,
My daily bread!
More poems by Robert Service
My Room
I think the things I own and love / Acquire a sense of me,
Negress In Notre Dame
When I attended Mass today / A coloured maid sat down by me,
A Character
How often do I wish I were / What people call a character;