He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save! So rang Tertullin's sentence on the side of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried, Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, whose sins once washed by the baptismal wave! So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sighed, The infant Church, of love she felt the tide stream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave, and then she smiled, and in the Catacombs, with eyes suffused but heart inspired true, on those walls subterranean, where she hid her head in ignominy, death and tombs, she her Good Shepherd's hasty image drew and on his shoulders no a lamb, a kid!
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