At the round earth's imagined corners, blow
Your trumpets angels, and arise, arise
From death, you numberless infinities
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
All whom the flood did and fire shall o'erthrow,
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes,
Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space,
For, if above all these, my sins abound,
'Tis late to ask abundance of the grace,
When we are there; here on this lowly ground,
Teach me to repent; for that's as good
As if thou hadst sealed my pardon, with thy blood.
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