Classic Poem

God, that all this mightes may,
In hevene and erthe thy wille is o;
Ich habbe be losed mony a day,
Er and late, ibe thy fo;
Ich wes to wite and wiste my lay;
Longe habbe holde me therfro.
Ful of mercy thou art ay;
All ungreithe ich am to thee to go.

To go to him that hath us boght,
My gode deden bueth fol smalle;
Of the werkes that ich ha wroght
The beste is bittrore then the galle.
My good ich wiste, I nolde it noght,
In folie me wes luef to falle;
When I myself have thourghsoght,
I knowe me for the worst of alle.

God, that deyedest on the rod,
All this world to forthren and fille,
For us thou sheddest thy swete blod;
That I ha don me liketh ille;
Bote er ageyn thee stith I stod,
Er and late, loude and stille:
Of mine deden finde I non god;
Lord, of me thou do thy wille.

In herte ne mighte I never bowe,
Ne to my kunde Louerd drawe;
My meste fo is my loves trowe—
Crist ne stod me never hawe.
Ich holde me vilore then a Giw,
And I myself wolde bue knowe.
Lord, mercy, rewe me now;
Reise up that is falle lowe!

God, that all this world shall hede,
Thy gode might thou hast in wolde;
On erthe thou come for oure nede,
For us sunful were boght and solde.
When we bueth dempned after ur dede
A domesday, when rightes bueth tolde,
When he shule suen thy wounde blede,
To speke thenne we bueth unbolde.

Unbold ich am to bidde thee bote;
Swithe unreken is my rees;
Thy wille ne welk I ner afote;
To wickede werkes I me chees.
Fals I wes in crop and rote
When I seide thy lore wes lees.
Jesu Crist, thou be my bote,
So boun ich am to make my pees.

All unreken is my ro,
Louerd Crist; whet shall I say?
Of mine deden finde I non fro,
Ne nothing that I thenke may.
Unworth ich am to come thee to;
I serve thee nouther night ne day.
In thy mercy I me do,
God, that all this mightes may.