VII: At the round earths imagined corners by Benjamin Britten Lyrics

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