And Fast By, Hanging In A Golden

Heaven, The Seat Of Bliss, Brooks Not The Works Of Violence And War.

Virtue That Wavers Is Not Virtue, But Vice Revolted From Itself, And After A While Returning. The Actions Of Just And Pious Men Do Not Darken In Their Middle Course.

What Better Can We Do Than Prostrate Fall Before Him Reverent, And There Confess Humbly Our Faults, And Pardon Beg With Tears Watering The Ground?

Evil Into The Mind Of God Or Man May Come And Go, So Unapproved, And Leave No Spot Or Blame Behind.

Ah, Why Should All Mankind For One Man's Fault, Be Condemned, If Guiltless?