  Supposed to be written by one at the point of death. G Ive me my Scalop 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 ne'er thirst 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'll travel, Strewed with rubies thick as gravel, Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, High walls of coral, and pearl bowers. From thence, to Heaven's bribeless Hall, Where no corrupted voices brawl. No conscience molten into gold; Nor 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 and sinful 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 bribÈd 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. FINIS. |
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