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When heaven is split open, |
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when the stars are scattered, |
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when the seas swarm over, |
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when the tombs are overthrown, |
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then a soul shall know its works, the former and the latter. |
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O Man! What deceived thee as to thy generous Lord |
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who created thee and shaped thee and wrought thee in symmetry |
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and composed thee after what form He would? |
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No indeed; but you cry lies to the Doom; |
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yet there are over you watchers |
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noble, writers |
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who know whatever you do. |
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Surely the pious shall be in bliss, |
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and the libertines shall be in a fiery furnace |
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roasting therein on the Day of Doom, |