The mid­day sun, with fier­cest glare,
Broods o’er 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 Heav’n’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 th’Al­migh­ty Son
Were pri­son­er yet in this dark earth,
Nor had pro­claimed His roy­al birth,
Nor His great pow­er be­gun.

Ah, where­fore per­se­cute thou Me?
He heard and saw, and sought to free
His strain­èd eye from sight:
But Heav’n’s high ma­gic bound it there,
Still gaz­ing, though un­taught to bear
Th’insufferable light.

Who art Thou, Lord? he fal­ters forth—
So shall sin ask of Heav’n and earth
At that 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 Heav’n’s gate long since has closed,
And our dear Lord in bliss re­posed,
So high above our ken,
To ev­ery ear in ev­ery land,
(Though meek ears on­ly un­der­stand)
He speaks as He did then.

Ah, where­fore per­se­cute ye Me?
’Tis 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 all My saints be­low.

I in your care My breth­ren left,
Not will­ing ye should be be­reft
Of wait­ing on your Lord.
The mean­est of­fer­ing you can make—
A drop of wa­ter—for love’s sake,
In Heav’n, be sure, is stored.

O 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 ev­er 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
More fierce­ly blaze and high­er.

And as each mild and win­ning note
(Like puls­es round the 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;
O Chris­tians, see your hap­py state:
Christ is in these, who round you wait;
Make much of your dear Lord!