No refuge of a younger birth than one that saw creation
Can hide the child of time from still condemning Yesterday.
There, is the Sanctuary-city, mocking at the wrath of thine Avenger,
Close at hand, with the wicket on the latch; haste for thy life, poor hunted one!
The gladiator, Guilt, fighteth as of old, armed with net and dagger;
Snaring in the mesh of yesterdays, stabbing with the poignard of to-day:
Fly, thy sword is broken at the hilt; fly, thy shield is shivered;
Leap the barriers, and baffle him: the arena of the past is his.
The bounds of Guilt are the cycles of Time: thou must be safe within Eternity;
The arms of God alone shall rescue thee from Yesterday.