Holy Sonnet VII: At the round earth’s imagin’d corners by John Donne

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 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.