My sister Martha is no way like me.
When she heard He was coming to our house
She yelled out, “Mary, we can’t let Him see
A dirty home!” She glared through knitted brows.
She took a broom and thrust it in my hand
As she declared, “You clean. I’ll make a meal.”
“What for?” I thought. “He’ll bring that scraggly band
That tracks in dirt and stinks of fish and creel.”
Instead, I waited for Him at the door,
Ushered Him in, and then sat at His feet
To hear His words, His wisdom to adore.
Then Martha called out with an angry bleat.
“Lord, don’t you care she’s left me all the work?”
He asked, “Her chores or Me. Which should she shirk?”