Rare Mood

It’s more than a little daunting

To conclude we’re not, after all,

The handiwork of a god,

Just a late descendant of pond scum.

Still, we can take some pride

In having written all the bibles ourselves,

Each with a prophet or two

Who’s more than a little vexed

With our neglecting again

The welfare of those outside

The walls of our family compound,

With our failure to clothe the naked

And feed the hungry.

We can take some pride in allowing

A rare mood of concern for others

To outweigh, on a page of scripture,

A host of moods more self-absorbed.

It’s heartening to read how a father—

Home after a day when he’s failed

To sell one plowshare or pruning hook

To the farmers who shop in Jericho—

Tries not to reprove his daughter

For setting her chores aside

To draw water for strangers—

Servants as well as masters—

And for all their camels, though at first

He’s tempted to shout, “How long

Do you think our well will support us

If you forget that among the virtues

Thrift should be listed first?”

And if he shouts it, that very night

A voice in his dream reminds him

His daughter is a blessing, not a burden.

What can he do, he wonders,

To make sure that the husband

He helps her choose, however pious,

However many his virtues,

Understands he’s a lucky man?