6.24.2012

Poetry Sundays: Holy Sonnet VII

Why Sunday poetry? Because I decided to switch from Tuesday poetry, that’s why!


Holy Sonnet VII
John Donne

At the round earths 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 oerthrow,
All whom war, dearth, age, agues, tyrannies,
Despair, law, chance hath slain, and you, whose eyes
Shall behold God, and never taste deaths 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 thats as good
As if Thou hadst seald my pardon with Thy blood.