At the round earth's imagined corners
Your trumpets, angels, and arise,
From death, you numberless
Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go,
All whom the flood did, and fire shall, overthrow,
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you whose
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
Teach me how to repent; for that's as
As if Thou'dst sealed my pardon, with Thy blood.
