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bot stood, Bright like the sun except one lifted palm-- Thereon there lay a stain. 'Behold that hand!' The Spirit spake, 'that, toiling twenty years, Sent forth that book which pacified the world; For it the world would canonise me Saint! See that ye do it not! Inferior tasks I wrought for God alone. Building that book Too oft I mused, "Far years will give thee praise." I expiate that offence.' Another day A sweet-faced woman raised her voice, and cried, 'Father! those sins denounced by God I flee; Yet tasks imposed by God too oft neglect: Stands thus a soul imperilled?' Cuthbert spake: 'Ye sued for parables; I speak in such, Though ill, a language strange to me, and new. There lived a man who shunned committed sin, Yet daily by omission sinned and knew it: In his own way, not God's, he served his God; And there was with him peace; yet not God's peace. So passed his youth. In age he dreamed a dream: He dreamed that, being dead, he raised his eyes, And saw a mountain range of frozen snows, And heard, "Committed sins innumerable Though each one small--so small thou knew'st them not-- Uplifted, flake by flake as sin by sin, Yon barrier 'twixt thy God and thee! Arise, Remembering that of sins despair is worst: Be strong, and scale it!" Fifty years he scaled Those hills; so long it seemed. A cavern next Entering, with mole-like hands he scooped his way, And reached at last the gates of morn. Ah me! A stone's cast from him rose the Tree of Life: He heard its sighs ecstatic: Full in view The Beatific River rolled; beyond All-glorious shone the City of the Saints Clothed with God's light! And yet from him that realm Was severed by a gulf! Not wide that strait; It seemed a strong man's leap twice told--no more; But, as insuperably soared that cliff, Unfathomably thus its sheer descent Walled the abyss. Again he heard that Voice: "Henceforth no place remains for active toils, Penance for acts perverse. Inactive sloth Through passive suffering meets its due. On earth That sloth a nothing seemed; a nothing now That chasm whose hollow bars thee from the Blest, Poor slender film of insubstantial air. Self-help is here denied thee; for that cause A twofold term thou need'st of pain love-taught T
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