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,
All whom the flood did,
And fire shall, overthrow,
All whom war, dearth,
Age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance, hath slain,
And you whose eyes,
Shall behold,
Shall behold,
Shall behold,
Shall behold God,
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, abound
‘Tis late to ask
Abundance of thy grace,
When we are there.
Here on this lowly ground,
Teach me how to repent;
For that's as good
As if thou'hadst seal'd my pardon
with thy blood!