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 quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains; There will I kiss The bowl of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill.
Then by that happy blissful day, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk apparelled fresh like me, I'll take them first To quench their thirst At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells.
From thence to heaven's bribeless
Where no corrupted voices brawl;
No conscience molten into gold,
No forged accuser bought or sold,
No cause deffered, no vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the king's Attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And He hath angels, but no fees.
And when the grand twelve-million jury Of our sins, with direful fury,
Against our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
