Joseph

Joseph, according to the record just, angel-ridden
and consulted last, what glory may you claim?
Was yours a father’s care, but, God-bidden,
respect for foster child you could not name?
Was your pride greater than any heart-hidden
common love for common men the same? 

It was you who showed his hands the glory of the lathe
in shaping wood to meet its proper use. 
But was it He whose growing shaped your faith
that you might stand in sorrow at that last abuse
as high above a puzzled world a wooden wraith
was raised to meet some deep excuse? 

No doubt it is as said: you “received your reward
in Heaven” as do all who need not repent.
But you appear on earth at every Christian board,
leading the ass, your face intent 
above the child, your eyes turned always toward
the path. You gave a joyous thing — consent.