Tom Muldoon sent in this sonnet by John Donne.

Holy Sonnet 7

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 overthrow,

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 an 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 sealed my pardon with Thy blood.