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.
My soul will be a-dry before;
But, after, it will thirst no more.

I love you,
Three words I believe will always be a lie.
I love you,
Three words I can no longer utter.
I love you,
Three words I fear more then death.
I love you,
Three words I'm terrified to hear again.
I love you,
Three words I'm scared to ever feel for you.
I love you,
Three words you tell me to believe in.
I love you,
Three words you have so much hope in.
I love you,
Three words I'm hoping you show me the meaning to.
I love you,
Three words I'm hoping could be true with you.
I love you,
Three words I start to believe in again.
I love you,
Three words that when spoken by you could mean so much.
I love you,
Three simple little words that I'm hoping last when it comes to you.