Mop Bucket Psalm

Three in the morning on the fourth floor east, the vending machine hums low I roll my yellow bucket down the hall where the visitors don't go Room twelve has a daughter who has fallen asleep with her hand inside his hand I wring out the water, keep my wheels real quiet, and I whisper what I can Lord, I ain't no preacher I just clean these floors But I'm asking You, softly Stand outside these doors Nobody here will ever learn my name, and I never needed them to The doctors have their charts and the nurses have their shift, and I have this to do Every door I pass gets a little bit of prayer, no louder than the rag on the sill I learned it from my father, who swept a school in Macon and is sweeping heaven still Lord, I ain't no preacher I just clean these floors But I'm asking You, softly Stand outside these doors Sun's coming up on the parking lot Clock out, and leave You all I've got