Classic Poem

Com home agayne,
Com home agayne,
Min owine swet hart, com home agayne;
Ye are gone astray
Owt of youer way;
Therefore com home agayne.

Mankend I cale, wich lyith in frale;
For loue I mad the fre;
To pay the det the prise was gret,
From hell that I ranssomed the.

Mi blod so red for the was shed;
The prise it ys not smale;
Remembre welle what I the tell,
And com whan I the kale.
Mi prophetes all, they ded the cale;
For loue I mad the free;

And I miselfe and mi postels twelfe,
To prech was all mi thouth
Mi Faders kyngedom both hole and sound,
Which that I so derly bouth.

Therefore refreyne, and torne agayne,
And leve thyne owene intent,
The which it is contrare, iwos,
Onto mi commaundment.

Thow standest in dout and sekest about
Where that thow mayst me se;
Idoules be set, mony for to gyt,
Wich ys made of stone and tre.

I am no stoke, nor no payncted bloke,
Nor mad by no mannes hand,
Bot I am he that shall los the
From Satan the phinnes bonde.