Some need encouraged in their daily grind,
But weaker souls know nothing of the kind.
Labor is home in a physical sense,
Applying a trade with just recompense.
This type, only, knows themselves to the bone —
Their good when gathered, their faults when alone.
They are able to grow by having root;
Trajectories matter, specifics moot.
But not all share this joy of weary hands,
Life happening while making other plans.
Where do they turn for help, these honest men?
Who know their faults and work despite their sin?
Who let not laziness enter their head,
And toil that they may eat their daily bread?
There are several options for this lot —
Some men were taught the wise, and some forgot.
Perhaps it was not drilled into their mind,
Their elders choosing rather to be kind.
These notions plague those who still assemble,
And the field — the church should more resemble.
Diligence in life, in heart, and doctrine
Sadly, do not come together often.
Perhaps this is what keeps tradesmen away,
And not so much that they have gone astray.
Perhaps if there were men like them in charge,
Whose heart was open, and duties discharged,
Then these guys would come back into the fold,
For we have the keys, not them (we are told).