Wayfaring Soldier

I have lived among you since my youth, in true faith and in sincerity of heart. Towards the pagan people too among whom I live, I have lived in good faith, and will continue to do so. God knows that I have not been devious with even one of them, nor do I think of doing so...

I know that I am inexperienced in all things. But still, I have tried to keep a guard on myself and for the Christians and virgins of Christ and religious women who were giving me small gifts of their own accord.

When they would throw some of their ornaments on the altar, I would give them back to them. They were hurt at me that I would do this. But it was because of the hope of the eternal gift, that I was careful in all things, in case unbelievers would trap me or my ministry of service for any reason. Nor did I want to give those who could not believe even the slightest reason for speaking against me or take my character away.

Perhaps, however, when I baptised so many thousands of people, did I hope to receive even the smallest payment? If so, tell me, and I will return it to you.

Or when the Lord ordained clerics everywhere through my poor efforts, and I gave this service to them for free, if I asked them to pay even for the cost of my shoes – tell it against me, and I will return it to you and more...

What can I say, or what can I promise to my Lord? There is nothing I have that is not his gift to me.... may God not let it come about that I would suffer the loss of his people who have become his in the furthermost parts of the earth...

If I have ever imitated anything good for the sake of my God whom I love, I ask that he grant me to be able to shed my blood with these converts and captives – even were I to lack a grave for burial, or my dead body were to be miserably torn apart limb from limb by dogs or wild beasts, or were the birds of heaven to devour it.

I declare with certainty that if this were to happen, I would have gained both my soul and my body. There is no doubt whatever that we will rise on the appointed day in the brightness of the sun...

I pray for those who believe in and have reverence for God. Some of them may happen to inspect or come upon this writing which Patrick, a sinner without learning, wrote in Ireland. 

My name is Patrick. I am a sinner, a simple country person, and the least of all believers. I am looked down upon by many... I was taken prisoner as a youth, particularly young in the matter of being able to speak, and before I knew what I should seek and what I should avoid. That is why, today, I blush and am afraid to expose my lack of experience, because I can’t express myself with the brief words I would like in my heart and soul... I am first of all a simple country person, a refugee, and unlearned. I do not know how to provide for the future. But this I know for certain, that before I was brought low, I was like a stone lying deep in the mud. Then he who is powerful came and in his mercy pulled me out, and lifted me up and placed me on the very top of the wall. That is why I must shout aloud in return to the Lord for such great good deeds of his, here and now and forever, which the human mind cannot measure. So be amazed, all you people great and small who fear God! You well-educated people in authority, listen and examine this carefully. Who was it who called one as foolish as I am from the middle of those who are seen to be wise and experienced in law and powerful in speech and in everything? If I am most looked down upon, yet he inspired me, before others, so that I would faithfully serve the nations with awe and reverence and without blame: the nations to whom the love of Christ brought me. His gift was that I would spend my life, if I were worthy of it, to serving them in truth and with humility to the end.

Still certain? It has all been tried before Under such different names: to make all men Subscribe to one same doctrine; or proscribe And kill those who refuse. Religion tried it, Nor altered once Man's spirit. You believe In monoliths. I bid you look at Stonehenge, The plain of ancient human sacrifice To gods whose adamant unhuman gaze Enjoyed the individual's agony. At night the stones speak there of priests who bound Men to red altars of a ruthless faith.

You would banish superstition? Yet you claim Omniscience, and the tablets of a law Descended from no Sinai. Once again You resurrect the dark and grim excuse That the end always justifies the means. And some of you, with eyes upon the stars, As true idealists as ever breathed, Are marching toward an obvious precipice Oblivious, down to slavery and chains. As for the young, they dedicate themselves With all devotion to that which they are told Is human nature's apotheosis.

You are my friend. You have the human warmth To be a friend, and have the frozen gaze To sacrifice for zeal your dearest friend Because you hate the wrong. I know the wrongs That shame us for the world, and I will ever Contend against them, but I hate a code Of blood and iron. Tell me what you see, Not what you wish to see! Call to your aid No dialectic, such as ancient schoolmen Used in dry academical dispute - But merely look-and see. You turn and argue

With me instead. You own one god and lord Who saw no further than materialism And missed the inexplicable moving spirit That works in Man, whereby a tyranny Under whatever name can smell as rank As those of old. But now you turn aside With the old pitying smile reserved for us Despised of the elect. You will re-mold The world to your own will; you are possessed Of the secret of the future; you will coerce Mankind for its own good. Well, I return

To men and books, to the bewilderment Of learning life, and to the paradoxes That you must also in your darker hours Know in your soul - O, I forget, you say You have no soul - well, feel within your mind! Is it nothing to you, the extra-terrene plight In which we find ourselves? Are you to solve it With one glib theory fitted to all things, As though the waves I look on from my window Could be made to move only in one set order?

Forgive an ancient, who has lived too long To be surprised by fantasies of men Though still surprised by fantasies of God, Or what prime mover you elect to name, Who reasons not as we, nor edicts issues, But thrives in Nature, dreams in firmanments, Dies every day and is reborn forever In love and freedom and the strange hope of Man.

How he called himself the Good Shepherd who, in contrast, would not devour the flock, nor run from the wolf, but would die for the sheep.

How poetic it was that the placard above his head read: