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 sealed my pardon, with thy blood. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOHN WILKES BOOTH AT THE FARM (JANUARY 12, 1848) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE CREATION by CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER THE DISAPPOINTMENT by APHRA BEHN FAITH AND DESPONDENCY by EMILY JANE BRONTE CAVALIER TUNES: GIVE A ROUSE THEN FOR THE CLINIC by ROBERT BROWNING THE CHOIR INVISIBLE by MARY ANN EVANS |