Matthew 3:8

Lo! Abraham was mild, imploring, penitent.

When he will hear the fierce twang produced by the constant stretch of the bow-string with fingers cased in leather gloves,--that terrible twang, loud as the rolling of the thunder, of my bow Gandiva wielded by me in the midst of the great battle,--then will that wicked wretch, the son of Dhritarashtra repent, beholding himself abandoned by his troops, flying away like kine from the field of battle in all directions, overwhelmed with the darkness created by my arrowy downpour. When he will behold innumerable keen-edged arrows, furnished with beautiful wings, and capable of penetrating into the very vitals, shot from the string of Gandiva, like fierce and terrible flashes of lightning emitted by the clouds, destroying enemies by thousands, and devouring numberless steeds and elephants clad in mail, then will the son of Dhritarashtra repent for this war. When he will behold the arrows shot by the enemy turned off, or turned back struck by my shafts, or cut to pieces pierced transversely by my arrows, then will the foolish son of Dhritarashtra repent for this war. When broad-headed arrows shot by my hands will strike off the heads of youthful warriors, like birds picking off fruits from the tree-tops, then will the son of Dhritarashtra repent for this war. When he will behold excellent warriors of his falling down from their cars, and elephants and steeds rolling on the field, deprived of life by my arrows, then will the son of Dhritarashtra repent for this war. When he will behold his brothers, even before fairly coming within the range of the enemy’s weapons, die all around, without having achieved anything in battle, then will the son of Dhritarashtra repent for this war. When pouring my blazing shafts incessantly, I will, like Death himself with mouth wide-open, destroy on all sides multitudes of cars and foot-soldiers, then will that wretch repent.

An evil deed is better left undone, for a man repents of it afterwards; a good deed is better done, for having done it, one does not repent.

The voice divine confess’d the martial maid; In haste he mounted, and her word obey’d; The coursers fly before Ulysses’ bow, Swift as the wind, and white as winter-snow.