Repent! Your vanity betrays, and wrenches
reason strong,
Until it wraps the truth to ways which shape
a right of wrong;
But every sin is still a sin; and if your hands
be shriven,
Her heart is no more black within, and she
shall be forgiven.

You ask not where those siren lips learned
their unworthy skill,
Nor reck of how shame's black eclipse obscured
her purer will.
You think not whence fair thoughts like
flowers gave room to passions low;
You know not of her girlhood's hours; you
do not care to know.

Nay! But the truth cries for the light, and
struggles to be heard;
The story of her bruise and blight shall out
in burning word--
Yours was the power which crushed that
grace and gave it to despair,
And the mask of beauty on that face, your
hands have painted there!

She was the temple of your lust, the altar of
your greed;
The sacrifice of faith and trust you made with