Lame as I am, I take the prey;
    Hell, earth, and sin with ease o’ercome;
  I leap for joy, pursue my way,
    And, as a bounding hart, fly home;
  Through all eternity to prove
  Thy nature and thy name is Love.

CHARLES WESLEY.

* * * * *

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 fixed 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.”