The Unpardonable Sin by G K Chesterton
I do not cry, beloved, neither curse.
Silence and strength, these two at least are good.
He gave me sun and stars and aught He could,
But not a woman's love; for that is hers.
He sealed her heart from sage and questioner --
Yea, with seven seals, as he has sealed the grave.
And if she give it to a drunken slave,
The Day of Judgment shall not challenge her.
Only this much: if one, deserving well,
Touching your thin young hands and making suit,
Feel not himself a crawling thing, a brute,
Buried and bricked in a forgotten hell;
Prophet and poet be he over sod,
Prince among angels in the highest place,
God help me, I will smite him on the face,
Before the glory of the face of God.
The Unforgivable Virtue by Simon Bucher-Jones
Cry not? I grant, nor curse
In one sense, aye,
you can maintain that strong position by
Refraining from reminding me, in verse.
What seals may have been set upon my heart,
Are broken not, for you or any man,
Rather those seals' wax, only can,
Be melted from within, by passion's start.
The one who those cold seven seals has warmed
He deserves well
No brute, nor crawling thing in hellish cell,
Besides - 'he' thinks my hands are strongly formed!
So if we three ever have grace to stand
Before the God, of whom I yet must doubt
I tell you, GKC 'you'll' get a clout!
From me, before I'll let you raise your hand!