At the round earths imagin'd corners, blow <br />Your trumpets, Angells, and arise, arise <br />From death, you numberlesse infinities <br />Of soules, and to your scattred bodies goe, <br />All whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, <br />All whom warre, dearth, sage, agues, tyrannies, <br />Despaire, law chance, hath slaine, and you whose eyes, <br />Shall behold God, and never tast deaths woe. <br />But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space, <br />For, if above all these, my sinnes abound, <br />'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace, <br />When wee are there; here on this lowly ground, <br />Teach mee how to repent; for that's as good <br />As if thou'hadst seal'd my pardon, with thy blood.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/holy-sonnet-vii-at-the-round-earth-s/
