Behold your armoury: — sword and lightning shaft,
Cull'd from the stores of God's all-judging ire,
And in your wielding left! The words, that waft
Power to your voice absolving, point with fire
Your awful curse. O grief! should Heaven's dread Sire
Have stayed, for you, the mercy-dews of old
Vouchsafed, when pastors' arms in deep desire
Were spread on high to bless the kneeling fold!
If censure sleep, will absolution hold?
Will the great King affirm their acts of grace,
Who careless leave to cankering rust and mould
The flaming sword that should the unworthy chase
From His pure Eden? O beware! lest vain
Their sentence to remit, who never dareretain.
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