Classic Poem

" Com out, Lazer, what-so befalle!"
Then might not the feend of helle
Lenger make that soule to dwelle;
So dredful was that ilke cry
To that feloun, oure enemy.
The Kinges trumpe blew a blast:
" Com out!", it saide, " be not agast".
With that vois the feende gan quake
As doth the leef when windes wake.
" Com out" is now a wonder soun:
It hath overcome that foule feloun;
And al his carful companye
For drede therof they gunne crye.
Yet is " Com out" a wonder song;
For it hath broken the prison strong,
Feteres, chaines, and bondes mo,
That wroughten wreched soules wo.
" Com out!": that Kinges vois so free
It maketh the devel and deth to flee.
Say me now, thou serpent sly,
Is not " Com out" an asper cry?
" Com out" is word of bataile,
For it gan helle soone to assaile.
Why stoppest thou not, feend, thyn ere,
That this word entre not there?
He that saide that word of might
Shop Him felly to the fight;
For with that word He won the feeld,
Withouten spere, withouten sheeld,
And broughte hem out of prison strong
That weren holden there with wrong.
Tel now, tyrant, where is thy might?
" Com out" hath felld it al with fight.