At the round earth's imagined corners blow <br />Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise <br />From death, you numberless infinities <br />Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go, <br />All whom the flood did, and fire shall, overthrow, <br />All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies, <br />Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose eyes <br />Shall behold God, and never taste death's woe. <br />But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space, <br />For, if above all these my sins abound, <br />'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace, <br />When we are there. Here on this lowly ground <br />Teach me how to repent; for that's as good <br />As if Thou'dst sealed my pardon, with Thy blood.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/holy-sonnet-vii-at-the-round-earth-s-imagined-co/
