You strike me down but still I rise,
for Jesus loves the poor.
You’ll never see your Lady’s eyes
for seven winters more.
.
On Christmas Eve I rode to church,
the snow lay crisp and thick.
A single star shone silver in the sky.
I spied a ragged beggar man out walking with a stick.
He stopped and turned and looked me in the eye.
.
“Have mercy on a beggar, Lord.”
His voice was weak and thin.
“For I am poor and have no place to go.
Please spare a penny that I might find shelter in an inn
or else I fear I’ll perish in the snow!”
.
You strike me down but still I rise,
for Jesus loves the poor.
You’ll never see your Lady’s eyes
for seven winters more.
.
“You dare address me, vagabond?
You beg for money, too?”
I thrashed him with my strap and knocked him down.
“Well, I must be at Midnight Mass, I have no time for you.”
I left him and I rode on into town.
.
But as I rode I heard him cry
“May Heaven curse your soul,
preventing you from ever reaching home!
God grant I live to see you with an empty begging bowl,
until, like me, you’re simply skin and bone!”
.
You strike me down but still I rise,
for Jesus loves the poor.
You’ll never see your Lady’s eyes
for seven winters more.
.
The Holy wafer tasted foul
and stuck fast in my throat.
Our Saviour, from his cross, looked down in scorn.
The priest spoke of the blessed sheep and how the wicked goats
would come to rue the day they had been born.
.
I left the sight of Christ, the Lord,
and started off alone,
afflicted with a mounting sense of dread.
I rode on for an hour but I came no nearer home.
I found myself back at the church instead!
.
You strike me down but still I rise,
for Jesus loves the poor.
You’ll never see your Lady’s eyes
for seven winters more.
.
I tried to take a different road,
beginning now to tire.
I longed for sleep, to rest upon my bed.
Again, I saw the cross reflecting moonlight, on the spire
and heard the beggar’s curse ring in my head.
.
I slept beneath the stars that night
and tried to leave next day.
But once again the church loomed into view.
Each day, each month, each journey always finished in that way,
until, at last, the seventh year was through.
.
You strike me down but still I rise,
for Jesus loves the poor.
You’ll never see your Lady’s eyes
for seven winters more.
.
By now my feet were bare and sore,
my body skin and bone.
My eyes, once bright, now sulked from sunken holes.
Deathly weak but free, at last, I hobbled my way home,
still carrying an empty begging bowl.
.
I thanked the stars to see my door
but wondered at the crowd
which stood and cheered “a toast to master’s health!”
And then I saw the beggar man, now beaming, full and proud,
transformed into a Lord, a man of wealth.
.
You strike me down but still I rise,
for Jesus loves the poor.
You’ll never see your Lady’s eyes
for seven winters more.
.
“What happens here,” I asked a man,
“upon this Christmas Day?”
He looked at me with loathing and with scorn.
“You have no business here, old man. Begone, away, I say!
for in this house a noble son is born!”
.
“But I am Lord within this house
and she’s my wife!” I cried.
My lady glared at me with flashing eyes.
“He disappeared, some years ago, my poor first husband died
and now you mock his memory with lies!”
.
You strike me down but still I rise,
for Jesus loves the poor.
You’ll never see your Lady’s eyes
for seven winters more.
.
The beggar man, now noble lord,
came gently to the door
and dropped ten golden coins into my bowl.
“The angels will watch over you, for Jesus loves the poor.
I’ll pray our Holy Lord preserves your soul!”
.
My golden hoard bought bed and board
for many beggar men.
I hoped this act would rid me of my shame.
That night, in church, I prayed to God to take me, there and then
and by and by I heard him call my name.
.
He struck me down but still I rise,
for Jesus loves the poor.
I’ll go to him in paradise
this night, forevermore.
.
Paul Hughes 2010
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