XIX. 
These little common sins may lead my lust 
To more deceitful vices, to the deeds 
At whose sweet name the side of Jesus bleeds 
In sympathy new-nurtured by the trust 
Of man’s forgiveness that his passion breeds— 
These petty crimes ! 
God grant they grow intense in newer, worthier times ! 
 
XX. 
Yet—shall I make me subject to a pang 
So horrible ?  O God, abase me still ! 
Break with Thy rod my unrepentant will, 
Lest Hell entrap me with an iron fang ! 
Grind me, most high Jehovah, in the mill 
That grinds so small ! 
Grind down to dust and powder Pride of Life—and all ! 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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