Holy Sonnet VII: At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners Blow
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t the round earth's imagined corners blowYour trumpets, angels, and arise, ariseFrom death, you numberless infinitiesOf 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 eyesShall 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 groundTeach me how to repent; for that's as goodAs if Thou'dst sealed my pardon, with Thy blood.
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