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  O Love, I come to worship in your shrine,

There is no part of you is not divine,

There is no part of you not human too,

There is no part of you that is not mine;

Except—except—that heart of precious stone,

Cold heart no man shall ever call his own,

Nor fire warm, nor might of loving win,

Heart great, and cold, enough to dwell alone.

Though the green world were wrapped in flaming hell,

Though sun and stars from out their stations fell,

Still, merciless Beloved, would I stand

Firm in your path and ask you, "Is it well?"