Opus (of the) Dei

I wrote this one five years ago. I'd long wanted to use the term "mortification of the flesh" in a poem, and because it's now in vogue, well, here we go:

A Day of Prayer

It is not only
Physical labor, it is
The mortification of the flesh,
The barter of suffering
For one divine
Wish,
The subterfuge of
A five gallon paint bucket and
Four flights of stairs,
The lie behind
Grasping the heaviest load
Out of the pile
When I pick first,
Because I do not have
A leather whip, or
If I did I would not
Hit hard, would not
Have the adoration of the act
To leave marks.
Rather, it’s in the pace,
The ceaseless rhythm
Of the shovel until
The wheel barrow can not be filled
Or unfilled, ‘til
The entire pile of mulch,
Or gravel is gone, placed in place,
Done.
There must be some
Omniscient God
Who sees my suffering,
Clip-board in hand and
Checks a box, yes,
Pain here, there, there,
And ignores my motive, grants my
Reward, my
Wish,
My wish,
My wish.