John Donne’s Sonnet #7 from the Divine Meditations:

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, death, 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.

References:
[tag]John Donne[/tag] [1971]:  The Complete English Poems.  London, England: Penguin Classics. Edited by A. J. Smith. pp. 311-312.
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