The Midday Sun, with Fiercest Glare

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!