Whatever guilt is perpetrated by some evil prompting, is grievous
to the author of the crime. This is the first punishment of
guilt that no one who is guilty is acquitted at the judgment seat
of his own conscience.
[Lat., Exemplo quodcumque malo committitur, ipsi
Displicet auctori. Prima est haec ultio, quod se
Judice nemo nocens absolvitur.]
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The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness.
The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness.
Haste, holy Friar,
Haste, ere the sinner shall expire!
Of all his guilt let him be shriven,
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Haste, holy Friar,
Haste, ere the sinner shall expire!
Of all his guilt let him be shriven,
And smooth his path from earth to heaven!
Guilt is a sure sign your thinking is unnatural.
*
HS was the amanuensis for the Course In Miracles.
Guilt is a sure sign your thinking is unnatural.
*
HS was the amanuensis for the Course In Miracles.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; the thief doth fear each bush an officer.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind; the thief doth fear each bush an officer.
What we call real estate--the solid ground to build a house
on--is the broad foundation on which nearly all read more
What we call real estate--the solid ground to build a house
on--is the broad foundation on which nearly all the guilt of this
world rests.
Guilt is the source of sorrow, 'tis the fiend,Th' avenging fiend, that follows us behindWith whips and stings.
Guilt is the source of sorrow, 'tis the fiend,Th' avenging fiend, that follows us behindWith whips and stings.
It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution
It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution
Guilt is the price we pay willingly for doing what we are going to do anyway
Guilt is the price we pay willingly for doing what we are going to do anyway
But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised,
And mine that I was proud on--mine so much
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But mine, and mine I loved, and mine I praised,
And mine that I was proud on--mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine,
Valuing of her--why she, O, she is fall'n
Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
Hath drops too few to wash her clean again,
And salt too little which may season give
To her foul tainted flesh!
