Aceldama

XVII. I am unworthy. In the House of Pain There are ten thousand shrines. Each one enfolds A lesser, inner, more divine, that holds A sin less palpable and less profane. The inmost is the home of God. He moulds Infinity, The great within the small, one stainless unity ! XVIII. I dare not to the greater sins aspire ; I might—so gross am I—take pleasure in These filthy holocausts, that burn to sin A damnéd incense in the hellish fire Of human lust—earth’s joys no heaven may win, Pain holds the prize In blood-stained hands; Love laughs, with anguish in His eyes. 2 0