The Lord God monologue — Satan Absolved: A Victorian Mystery

Alas, the time is late. I do repent Me sore The wrong I did thee, Satan, in those griefs of yore. The wrong I did the Earth. Yet is Eternity A long day for atonement. Thou thyself shalt be My instrument here of wrath to purge this race of Man And cast him on Time's dunghill, whence he first began. What, Angel, is thy counsel? Shall we unseal again The fountains of the heavens, send our outpoured rain, And flood him with new waters? Shall it be by fire? Shall we embraize the earth in one vast funeral pyre By impact of a star? let loose a sulphurous wind? Belch rocks from the Earth's bowels? Shall we strike Man blind With an unbearable light? Shall we so shake the hills, The plains, that he fall palsied, grind him in the mills Of a perpetual hail, importune him with snow, Scourge him with noise unceasing, or the glutinous flow Of a long pestilent stench? Speak, Satan, all thy thought, Thou who the traitor knowest. How may he be brought Best to annihilation?