At the round earths imagin'd corners
Blow your trumpets, angells, and arise,
Arise from death,
You numberlesse infinities of soules,
And to your scattred bodies goe
All whom warre, dearth,
Age, agues, tyrannies,
Dispaire, law, chance,
Hath slaine, and you whose eyes
But let them sleep, lord
And me mourne a space for
If above all these
My sinnes abound
Teach me how to repent
For that's as good
As if thou'hadst seal'd
May pardon with the blood
This late to aske abundance
Of the grace
When we are there
Here on this lowly ground
This is bloody ground
