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Give me my
scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk
upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of
salvation,
My gown of glory, hope's true gage;
And
thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my
body's balmer,
No other balm will there be given,
Whilst my soul like a white palmer
Travels to the
land of heaven,
Over the silver mountains,
Where
spring the nectar fountains:
And there I'll kiss
The bowl of bliss,
And drink my eternal fill
On
every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.
And by the
happy blissful way
More peaceful pilgrims I shall
see,
That have shook off their gowns of clay,
And
go apparelled fresh like me.
I'll bring them first
To slake their thirst,
And then to taste those nectar
suckets
At the clear wells
Where sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when
our bottles and all we
Are filled with immortality,
Then the holy paths we travel,
Strewed with rubies
thick as gravel,
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire
floors,
High walls of coral, and pearl bowers,
From thence to heavens's bribeless hall,
Where no
corrupted voices brawl,
No conscience molten into
gold,
No forged accusers bought and sold,
No cause
deferred, nor vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is
the King's Attorney,
Who pleads for all without
degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
When
the grand twelve-million jury
Of our sins, with
direful fury,
'Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my
speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true
proceeder!
Thou movest salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribed lawyer's palms.
And this is my
eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea:
Seeing my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to
dine next noon,
Just at the stroke, when my veins
start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head!
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those
blest paths which before I writ.
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