At the round Earth's made-up sharp bits
 Blow your horns, winged ones, and rise up
 Rise up from death, you great past all we can count, of souls
 And to each your own corpse, spread out, please go!

 All whom the flood did and fire shall turn
 All whom war, death, age, hard heart, brute force
 squashed down, or who by law or chance are slain;
 And you whose eyes shall see God

 And not now or then taste death's woe
 But let them sleep, Lord, and me cry a while
 For, if on top of all else, my sins rise to a high point
 It's late to ask You to give your grace to me in full
 Now that we are there

 Here on this low down dirt
 Teach me how to be small, for that's as good
 As if you'd stamped and sealed and proved me
 With your own shirt.

                                -- John Donne
                                   (done by P.N.H.)