Joseph Poem by Mark Sauer

First, nearest to Him; least, furthest from us,
Of all saints most hidden - and familiar;
Faceless, voiceless - a name and the office
Of step-father is all we know; no more.
But the silence is why I'm drawn to him;
Did he ever really grasp who the infant
Was, swaddled against the chill of the grim
Cave? It didn't matter - he was content
He needed him, a father to the Son.
We preserve no word he spoke to the child
Playing in the wood shavings, what lessons
He taught, or what they discussed in the mild
Sun as they walked to Sepphoris each day
To work. Not, I think, the weary journey
To Bethlehem before and the haste away
To Egypt after, or future destiny,
But homely, little matters of the day;
And then he even died with hushed reserve,
Buried unmarked, and spoken of no more
As the great Work began. Content to serve,
Patron of the silent and the obscure,
He was the void from which stepped the Savior.