O happy slumber, falling tenderly
Upon the eyelids of the Just, to be
Some little while in that fair company
Of Saints and Prophets, who expectantly
Are waiting for the Flower of David's Tree.
Gather they not around to learn from thee,
O Blessed Joseph, what their hope may be?
Thy spirit, bright and pure, transcendently
Within their midst, like sunshine, falls; and see,
The shades of Limbo brighten visibly.
The Patriarchs in order look to thee,
O Messenger of Peace: and eagerly
Await thy message. Abraham turns on thee
A look of Patriarchal dignity;
With David, King and Prince of Psalmody.
And thou, Isaias, whose pure soul would be
Foremost to understand - God's Voice was he
Proclaiming the report which none would see;
For none believed the word of prophecy
Of Him, the tender Shoot of Jesse's Tree.
And plaintive Jeremias; yea, and he
Who saw the Living Creatures wondrously
The Throne supporting; where, in Majesty
The Son of Man in might appeared to be
Clothed with the Fire of Heaven transcendently.
Here patient Job, and grave Methussaleh;
And thy dear namesake, Joseph, thou wouldst see
And comtemplative Isaac, verily,
With tender-hearted Israel here would be;
And Juda, Root of Jesse's family.
All feel the time is coming; and to thee
Turn with a look of deep expectancy.
When Adam riseth: 'Son beloved,' saith he,
'Comfort hast thou to give; then let it be
To us delivered. Lo, we wait on thee.'
- text taken from Mary: The Perfect Woman, by Emily Mary Shapcote