THE CARPENTER'S SON

THE summer dawn came over-soon,

The earth was like hot iron at noon

In Nazareth;

There fell no rain to ease the heat,

And dusk drew on with tired feet

And stifled breath.

The shop was low and hot and square,

And fresh-cut wood made sharp the air,

While all day long

The saw went tearing thru the oak

That moaned as tho’ the tree's heart broke

Beneath its wrong.

The narrow street was full of cries,

Of bickering and snarling lies

In many keys —

The tongues of Egypt and of Rome

And lands beyond the shifting foam

Of windy seas.

Sometimes a ruler riding fast

Scattered the dark crowds as he passed,

And drove them close

In doorways, drawing broken breath

Lest they be trampled to their death

Where the dust rose.

There in the gathering night and noise

A group of Galilean boys

Crowding to see

Gray Joseph toiling with his son,

Saw Jesus, when the task was done,

Turn wearily.

He passed them by with hurried tread

Silently, nor raised his head,

He who looked up

Drinking all beauty from his birth

Out of the heaven and the earth

As from a cup.

And Mary, who was growing old,

Knew that the pottage would be cold

When he returned;

He hungered only for the night,

And westward, bending sharp and bright,

The thin moon burned.

He reached the open western gate

Where whining halt and leper wait,

And came at last

To the blue desert, where the deep

Great seas of twilight lay asleep,

Windless and vast.

With shining eyes the stars awoke,

The dew lay heavy on his cloak,

The world was dim;

And in the stillness he could hear

His secret thoughts draw very near

And call to him.

Faint voices lifted shrill with pain

And multitudinous as rain;

From all the lands

And all the villages thereof

Men crying for the gift of love

With outstretched hands.

Voices that called with ceaseless crying,

The broken and the blind, the dying,

And those grown dumb

Beneath oppression, and he heard

Upon their lips a single word,

“Come!”

Their cries engulfed him like the night,

The moon put out her placid light

And black and low

Nearer the heavy thunder drew,

Hushing the voices... yet he knew

That he would go.

A quick-spun thread of lightning burns,

And for a flash the day returns —

He only hears

Joseph, an old man bent and white

Toiling alone from morn till night

Thru all the years.

Swift clouds make all the heavens blind,

A storm is running on the wind —

He only sees

How Mary will stretch out her hands

Sobbing, who never understands

Voices like these.