1 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.
2 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.
3 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.
4 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.
5 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.
6 "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.
7 "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!"
8 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.
9 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.
10 "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."
11 "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."
12 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.
13 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.
14 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:
15 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!"
Source: The Cyber Hymnal #16327
Keble, John, M.A., was born at Fairford, in Gloucestershire, on St. Mark's Day, 1792. His father was Vicar of Coln St. Aldwin's, about three miles distant, but lived at Fairford in a house of his own, where he educated entirely his two sons, John and Thomas, up to the time of their entrance at Oxford. In 1806 John Keble won a Scholarship at Corpus Christi College, and in 1810 a Double First Class, a distinction which up to that time had been gained by no one except Sir Robert Peel. In 1811 he was elected a Fellow of Oriel, a very great honour, especially for a boy under 19 years of age; and in 1811 he won the University Prizes both for the English and Latin Essays. It is somewhat remarkable that amid this brilliantly successful career,… Go to person page >
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