06 Jun From the Pillar of Saint Simeon Stylites
God shows His power through the weak,
How weak am I! for the crowds who swell,
Simeon Stylites! in a motion they speak,
But my mind returns to unharrowed Hell,
If I be destined downward, I cannot tell,
So by penitent hours I lonesome count.
God wrought miracles by Moses’ hand,
But him they entered Israel without —
Indeed he never entered the promised land!
So on this column ringed over river sand,
I only lift my draining eyes to heaven blue,
Prefect over the earth, who scorches my skin,
Dries my tongue and brims my beard in dew.
My deeds could not cover but a single sin,
You too, search your heart and examine:
Listen, I repose on marble singed in sun,
This loathsome pillar has raised me up
So look to me and look above, the Holy One
Has poured and given me a shallow cup,
Whose shining warmth none interrupt.
These silences strike like pellet-rain,
Roaring wind in hissing taunt I hear
Hanging on the wind a voice profane,
Judas and Pilate and Caiaphas are near
To rest upon my summit and spire sheer,
And Hell spreads wing on stylobate
Inverse lights travails up volute head,
But fluted hands of Abaddon abate
And Asmodeus falls to ashen lead.
Theirs a gasping neigh of horses dead,
Whose eyes glow from baluster gaps
Vengeful for my prayers which never cease,
My sign of the cross in repeated laps
Might God remember and grace increase,
Though never might on earth come my peace.
So fast and scourge yourself! sacrifice!
If they come for me, how much more for you,
I have been fed much from the side of Christ
Till now and still how my soul wavers too,
God prepares a pit with these coals baked blue,
With trenches carved for us and them as well.
His unflinching grace yet seeks our sainthood!
These garden troves of balsam vapor fell —
I know its nascent scent, the taste of good ,
O Jesus Christ, bare feet on wood,
Hands outstretched for I, even I, even I!
I longed to descend from this capital cage,
Glory seems so far away from my eye,
And these agonies do all but assuage
The irrevocable loss of time, my wage,
I gaze on crowds who grow not old
While my heart raises pitch to descend
From sunshine scorch and lunar cold,
To close this chapter with a dismal end
But laudum est, and I am His friend
And if He makes relics from my bone,
God rebuke me if I would elope
Before I make these sufferings home,
From mortal mire I crave, I cope,
This is the cause of this yet derelict hope
If these hours flow from my soul, a fount
Which by Christ can wash the crowd about
Then no hour shall come where I dismount,
But teach me to not count, count, count.