Classic Poem

Lady, helpe! Jesu, mercé!
 Timor mortis conturbat me.

Dred of deth, sorow of sin
 Trobels my hert ful grevously;
My soul it noyth with my lust then—
 Passio Christi conforta me.

For blindnes is a hevy thing,
 And to be def therwith only,
To lese my light and my hering—
 Passio Christi conforta me;

And to lese my tast and my smelling,
 And to be seke in my body;
Here have I lost al my liking—
 Passio Christi conforta me.

Thus God He yives and takes away,
 And, as He wil, so mot it be.
His name be blessed both night and day—
 Passio Christi conforta me.

Here is a cause of gret mourning:
 Of myself nothing I see
Save filth, unclenness, vile stinking—
 Passio Christi conforta me.

Into this world no more I brought;
 No more I get with me trewly
Save good deed, word, wil, and thought—
 Passio Christi conforta me.

The five woundes of Jesu Crist
 My medicine now mot they be,
The feendes power down to cast—
 Passio Christi conforta me.

As I lay seke in my langòure,
 With sorow of hert and teere of ye,
This carol I made with gret dolòure—
 Passio Christi conforta me.

Oft with this prayere I me blest:
 ‘In manus tuas, Domine;
Thou take my soule into thy rest—
 Passio Christi conforta me.’

Mary, moder, merciful may,
 For the joys thou hadest, lady,
To thy Son for me thou pray—
 Passio Christi conforta me.

Lerne this lesson of blind Awdlay:
 When bale is highest, then bot may be.
If thou be noyed night or day,
 Say ‘ Passio Christi conforta me .’