His Were Patient Feet

The feet of Joseph, walking mile on mile,

Were willing feet. The donkey following

His lead avoided every stone: He bore

The unborn King.

Mary, who saw their feet were tiring, knew

She must reach Bethlehem to bear her Son.

She smiled at Joseph, knowing he too dreamed

Of the Little One.

The Babe's first cry dispelled his weariness

When resting in a stable sweet with hay.

He thought of the waiting cradle as he knelt

Where the Infant lay.

Oh, his were patient feet, not hesitant:

When an angel bade, they crossed the desert sand

Fleeing to Egypt. Wearied, Joseph touched

A little hand.

And was renewed--Time passed. Returning home,

The Little One would often coax to walk

Beside him; leave small footprints by his own.

The Wee Lad's talk

Awoke his father-love: What joy to work

Together in his shop ... until He grew!

All wisely would he guide those little feet,

For he knew ... He knew!

He Had Made Cradles

He bowed in awe, mute with humility--
He had made cradles for many a little one--
Before him in a manger-cradle lay
        A Kingly Son.

Not his, but born of Mary. Not over strange
Was the clean stable with its scent of hay;
He had known mangers and contented cattle
        With their gentle way.

He knew the voice of prophecy, and spoke
With an angel; learned of Mary's promised Son.
While waiting, tenderly he made a cradle
        For the Little One.

They two would roam the fields of Nazareth;
Would both be carpenters until He grew ...
He bowed his head in tender reverence
        For he knew ... He knew!