The Conversion of Saint Paul

The Midday sun, with fiercest glare, Broods over the hazy, twinkling air; Along the level sand The palm-tree’s shade unwavering lies, Just as thy towers, Damascus, rise To greet yon wearied band. The leader of that martial crew Seems bent some mighty deed to do, So steadily he speeds, With lips firm closed and fixèd eye, Like warrior when the fight is nigh, Nor talk nor landscape heeds. What sudden blaze is round him poured, As though all Heaven’s refulgent hoard In one rich glory shone? One moment,—and to earth he falls: What voice his inmost heart appalls?— Voice heard by him alone. For to the rest both words and form Seem lost in lightning and in storm, While Saul, in wakeful trance, Sees deep within that dazzling field His persecuted Lord revealed With keen yet pitying glance: And hears the meek upbraiding call As gently on his spirit fall, As if the Almighty Son Were prisoner yet in this dark earth, Nor had proclaimed his royal birth, Nor his great power begun. “Ah! wherefore persecut’st thou me?” He heard and saw, and sought to free His strained eye from the sight: But Heaven’s high magic bound it there, Still gazing, though untaught to bear The insufferable light. “Who art thou, Lord?” he falters forth:— So shall Sin ask of heaven and earth At the last awful day “When did we see thee suffering nigh, And passed thee with unheeding eye? Great God of judgment, say!” Ah! little dream our listless eyes What glorious presence they despise While, in our noon of life, To power or fame we rudely press.— Christ is at hand, to scorn or bless, Christ suffers in our strife. And though heaven’s gates long since have closed, And our dear Lord in bliss reposed, High above mortal ken, To every ear in every land (Though meek ears only understand) He speaks as he did then. “Ah! wherefore persecute ye me? ’T is hard, ye so in love should be With your own endless woe. Know, though at God’s right hand I live, I feel each wound ye reckless give To the least saint below. “I in your care my brethren left, Not willing ye should be bereft Of waiting on your Lord. The meanest offering ye can make— A drop of water—for love’s sake, In heaven, be sure, is stored.” Oh, by those gentle tones and dear, When thou hast stayed our wild career, Thou only hope of souls, Ne’er let us cast one look behind, But in the thought of Jesus find What every thought controls. As to thy last Apostle’s heart Thy lightning glance did then impart Zeal’s never-dying fire, So teach us on thy shrine to lay Our hearts, and let them day by day Intenser blaze and higher. And as each mild and winning note (Like pulses that round harp-strings float When the full strain is o’er) Left lingering on his inward ear Music, that taught, as death drew near, Love’s lesson more and more: So, as we walk our earthly round, Still may the echo of that sound Be in our memory stored: “Christians, behold your happy state; Christ is in these who round you wait; Make much of your dear Lord!”