Abandon Every Hope, You Who Enter.

He Loves But Little Who Can Say And Count In Words, How Much He Loves.

Thy Soul Is By Vile Fear Assailed, Which Oft So Overcasts A Man, That He Recoils From Noblest Resolution, Like A Beast At Some False Semblance In The Twilight Gloom.

O How Far Remov'd, Predestination! Is Thy Foot From Such As See Not The First Cause Entire: And Ye, O Mortal Men! Be Wary How Ye Judge: For We, Who See The Maker, Know Not Yet The Number Of The Chosen; And Esteem Such Scantiness Of Knowledge Our Delight: For All Good Is, In That Primal Good, Concentrate; And God's Will And Ours Are One.

The More A Thing Is Perfect, The More It Feels Pleasure And Likewise Pain.

Before Me Things Created Were None, Save Things Eternal, And Eternal I Endure. All Hope Abandon, Ye Who Enter Here.