The Epic of Saul

by William Cleaver Wilkinson

High answered Stephen thus, but Ruth rejoined:
"Stephen, thou ever wert a stubborn will,
And overweening of the wisdom thine,
Hard-hearted and unloving never yet,
Never, till now. How canst thou bide thus calm,
And I, thine erst loved wife, beheld by thee
So tossed with tempest and not comforted?"

Wherewith self-pity broke her words to sobs:
She fell on Stephen's neck and wept aloud.
With both his arms he folded her about,
While his heart, hugely swelling in his breast,
Forced to his eye the slow, large, rounding tear.
It was as if a cloud that wished to rain
Strongly held back its drooping weight of shower.
His melting voice at last he fixed in words:
"What meanest thou to weep and break my heart,
O thou, mine own, most loving and most loved
Of women? Flesh cries out to flesh in me
Against the purpose of my spirit set
To crucify the flesh with its desires!"

Ruth caught her sobs and held them while she spoke:
"Flesh of thy flesh am I; thou slayest me
In slaying thyself; I will not have it so.
Not ready yet am I to die in thee;
And thee God surely needs alive, not dead:
The dead cannot praise God nor serve His cause.
Who will so preach that gospel that thou lovest
When thou art gone? Who then will silence Saul?
I tell thee, Stephen, this is Satan's guile—
To get thee slain—and overmatch mightst thou
The arch-deceiver, easily, if thou wouldst,
So easily—only live."

Conclusive seemed
Her argument to Ruth and stanched her tears.
She gently disengaged the fond embrace
That held her to her husband's heart, and, drawn
A little backward from his face her face,
She smiled on him like sunshine after rain.
Smiling pathetically back, he kissed,
With kisses that she felt like sacraments,
Then, and forever after till she died,
His wife's brow beautiful with hope, and said:
"Ruth, thou hast said; it is, be sure, his guile,
Satan's, whereby I presently shall die;
If so to die indeed be mine, who feel
Too young still, and too strong, too full of hope,
Too full of—shall I name it, Ruth?—too full
Of God Himself, the Holy Ghost, to die!
For He within me lives such life and power,
Death seems impossible, all weakness seems
Far off, an alien thing, and not for me;
I am immortal and omnipotent.
That, Ruth, is when I stand to speak for God,
Preaching to men the gospel of His Son.

"But when, as now, I sit with thee and talk,
Or when my children cluster round my knees,
And I hear husband, father, from fond lips
Pressed to these lips so oft, and with such joy,
When all the dearness that is meant by home,
And all the drawing lodged in kindred blood,
And all that sense, unutterably deep,
Of oneness, soul in soul, with those we love—
O Ruth!—but, Ruth, our tears commingled flow,
'Tis our hearts flow together in those tears!
O wife and life, when all that I have said,
And that far more which never tongue could say,
Surges upon me, surge on surge of thought
And feeling, like an overflowing flood,
Belovéd, then, how weak I am, how frail,
How low and like to die! I lean toward thee,
As if the oak should lean upon his vine."

Ruth took his word from him and made reply:
"So lean on me, my love, and be at rest;
Lean, and make proof how vines at need are strong.
In me no faltering purpose weakens will.
Thou speakest of flesh within thee crying out
To flesh against the spirit—warfare strange
Of elements that dwell in me at one.
My nature moves straightforward all one way.
Rebellion none, no mutiny, I find
Only resolve to thwart thy mad resolve,
Thy half resolve, say rather, half and mad—
So proved by these compunctious visitings
Thou hast, these gracious sweet remorses wise,
Relentings toward thy children and toward me;
Divine presages, Stephen, scorn them not,
Sent to forewarn thee ere it be too late!

"Bethink thee, Stephen, when didst thou before,
Ever, thus will and straight unwill, thus halt,
Thus parley with thyself, thus stand in doubt
Like a reed shaken with the wind, as now
I see thee here? Thou art not like thyself;
Not like that Stephen, ready, combative,
Thy stature still elastically tall
To tower and overtop and overfrown
Whatever front of menace challenged thee.
By thy changed state, I pray thee, be advised.
God teaches thee hereby. He does not wish
Thy will with thy desire to be at war.
Give up thy heady will, and let desire,
Divinely wise, the wisdom of the heart,
Guide thee; her ways are ways of pleasantness,
And all her paths are peace."

Again well pleased
With her own argument, Ruth tearful smiled
A smile that, tenfold tender through those tears,
Was argument to Stephen more than words.
From deep within he heaved a sigh and said:
"Oh! Woman! Woman! Ruth, thou teachest me
How Adam could, by Eve's enticement drawn,
Be even beguiled to die. And now, to live,
Not die, my Eve entices me. O Ruth,
I feel, I feel, doubt not but that I feel,
The sweet, the subtly sweet, dissolving spell
Of wish infused by thee, with thee to live,
With thee and for thee, nay, in thee, as thou
In me—this twain one life, how dear, how dear!
O wife, what is there that I could not bear
And dare of hard and high, wert thou, with smiles
And tears and love, for Christ but eloquent,
As all too well I feel thee eloquent
For our sweet selves?"

Ruth's heart sank, but she said:
"O Stephen, for our children!" Then she threw
Her head upon his bosom, there in tears,
With passionate sobs and throbs, poured out her heart.

He mightily a mighty swell that yearned
To be a storm within him, ruled, and said:
"Nay, Ruth, but we forget. Life beyond life
Remains to us and to our children. We,
Forgetfully, desire and hope and fear
As if death bounded all. A little while
And Christ will come again. Then they that sleep
In Him will wake to Him, and they that still
Wake when He comes, but love Him, will, with those
Late sleeping in Him now awake, ascend
To meet the Lord descending, in the air:
Thenceforward all that love Him, loved of Him,
Will be forever with Him where He is,
Beholding there His glory. Blessed state!
No tears, no fears, no hearts that break, no hearts
That will not break, although they ache the more,
Perhaps, God knows, not breaking—naught of these,
And naught of any ill, but only peace,
Joy, love, security of peace and joy
And love, and fellowship in peace and joy
And love, forever, perfect, more and more,
With vision beatific still of Him
Who washed us in His blood and made us kings
And priests to God. Ruth, here is hope indeed
For us that will not make ashamed."