The Treasury Of Sacred Song

By Francis Turner Palgrave

XIX At the round earth's imagined corners blow

Your trumpets, Angels; and arise, arise

From death, you numberless infinities

Of souls, and to your scatter'd bodies go,

All whom the Flood did, and Fire shall, o'erthrow;

All whom Death, war, 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 those 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'dst seal'd my pardon with my blood.