Benjamin Britten — VII: At the round earths imagined corners

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 seal'd my pardon, with thy blood