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All sin is finite, mercy infinite; Why shouldst thou doubt that God will pardon thee?

I doubt it not. God's mercy pardons all Who truly do repent; and O how truly, How deeply, how intensely I repent! But in my breast there is a goading sense, An inward agony, a power repelling In dire abhorrence every better thought. The bliss of heaven for me! incongruous hope! My soul, my fancy, yea my very will Is link'd to misery; and happiness Comes to my thoughts like gleams of painful day To owls and bats, and things obscene and hateful, Fitted by nature for their dismal dens. O that I were like such! in the reft rock Of some dank mine coil'd up, dull and unconscious Of the loud hammer's sound, whose coming stroke Should crush me from existence!

Alas, alas, my son! have better thoughts.

Let them arise in better hearts, for mine A nest of stinged scorpions hath become, And only fit for such. Each recollection, Each waking fancy, like a barbed fang, Pierces its core with thrilling agony,