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, tyrannies,

Despair, law, chance, hath deaths 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.

– John Donne 1573–1631AD.  English poet and pastor.