Classic Poem

God hath yeuen, of myghtis most,
The vii yiftis of the Hole Gost.

Mynd, resun, vertu, and grace,
Humelete, chast, and charete,
These vii yiftis God yeuen has
By the vertu of the Hole Gost to mon onle;
Ellis were we lost.

Mynd makis a mon himselue to know,
And resun him reulis in his werkis all,
And vertu makis his goodnes yknow,
And grace is grownde of hem all;
Ellis were we lost.

Humelete pride he dothe downe falle;
Chast kepis the clene in thi leuyng;
Then charete is chef of hem all;
Mon soule to blis he dothe hom breng;
Ellis were we lost.

Haue faythe, hope, and charete;
These be the grownd of thi beleue;
Ellis sauyd thou myght not be,
Thus Poule in his pistil he doth preue;
Ellis were we lost.

Thi faythe is thi beleue of Hole Cherche;
Onle in hope God hathe hordent the,
Good workis that thou schuld werche
And be rewardid in heuen on hye
Ellis were we lost.

Then charete, chef callid is he;
He cownselis vche mon that is leuyng
To do as thou woldist men did be the,
And kepe Godis est and his bidyng;
Ellis were we lost.