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# Saint Paul's Parade
- URL: https://mereorthodoxy.com/saint-pauls-parade/
- Published: 2026-02-02T12:00:06.000Z
- Updated: 2026-05-18T14:34:03.000Z
- Description: A poetic reflection on the martyrdom of St Paul and 'the death that shall not stick.'
- Author: Mere Orthodoxy
- Tags: Haley Byrd Wilt, Poetry, Theology

*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.