Paul just had to win. His heart, if not his hand,
was pure from the start.
And heart soon guided hand.
Who dreamed Damascus would lead
to promised land?
How often I myself start toward Damascus,
resisting stubbornly Truth's simple call.
"Saul, Saul," a voice cries to me,
and, mentally, I fall on bended knee.
(From humble stance, who knows
what views may come to sight?
A glimpse of Love that melts all pride
and bids fear take flight.)
He fell as Saul but rose as Paul,
ready to do Love's bidding.
Gone the pride, and human will
banished in Truth's light, until
humility had wrought its wonder.
Rise, O Paul, stand upright through eternity.
Today I see you journeying toward Damascus,
and I remember.
I remember.
