Thriambos: first a hymn to Bacchus,
long-honored lord of wine-soaked mirth.
The word then seized as triumph—
golden sons of empire
toasting sodden spoils of war.
Lofty god-king Jupiter, ruler of the sky,
links arms with drunken twice-born
Liber Pater of the vine.
Green-adorned, their brows,
laurel-wreathed with oak and reed,
marble temple garlanded
for victor’s ruddy feast.
Shadows writhe there at their feet,
the masses cluster close,
hungry jaws yawning agape,
unsated grave below.
Fresh-baked bread, so free of charge,
to whet the appetite—
but murder dances in mob’s eyes,
so parched for wine-dark flow.
Murmurs, then euphoric cry
‘round Rome’s vast vaunted host:
Mud is mingling with the blood
of stumbling almost-ghosts.
Captives from these lands new-won
stagger up to Jove,
his thunderbolt so great and fell,
inexorable woe.
Wicked swordpoint sings behind,
blades they gleam ahead;
gleeful slaughter keening low,
gods’ portion of the dead.
But peer beyond, ye huddled horde—
A new man treads the road,
the sacred way up to god’s face,
his wooden cross in tow.
Side-lanced and scarred, the lowly one,
outrageous claim to make:
King of these crowds, the sky, the vine,
slayer of the snake.
And as Word walks, worn sandals thin,
a figure’s close behind:
Once-zealous foe, wise learnéd Saul
trails He who struck him blind.
“What is this sight we fearsome ones
see with our stone-carved eyes?”
Trembling Jove now shields his son,
astonished by the light.
“He doth not shine in hammered iron
nor doth he carry spear,
yet power beams out of His feet,
from wounded hands once-pierced.”
Marble tower starts to shake;
its columns creak and groan,
and the greatest of the great
great Jupiter begins to moan.
“These rays are bright, so very bright
for eyes though dull mine be.
I cannot bear to look upon
this mighty man so meek.”
Bacchus, too, is wincing, taut,
his gaze resting behind
that holy echo of his life,
on Paul the death-destined.
“How could a one so rich in wealth
just cast it all aside?
No earthly man would choose a fate
to share with the enchained.”
Lush green wreaths on graven heads
wither now, brown-edged,
and Saint Paul walks, his hands unbound,
eating the true bread.
He drinks the wine, grateful to die
for He who claimed his life:
That lowly God-man, Lord of all,
who once did strike him blind.
Plebes and pats both gnash their teeth,
their panem spewed in spit,
yet Paul the one who marches on
just answers with a grin.
His eyes stay fixed, fastened upon
the risen Lord of life, and he laughs
at death that waits for him—
the death that shall not stick.
Haley Byrd Wilt
Haley Byrd Wilt is a writer, editor, and journalist based in the D.C. area.
Her work has been published in Christianity Today, Foreign Policy, the New York Times, NOTUS, and CNN, among others. Her fiction has appeared in Analog Science Fiction & Fact.
