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.