Classic Poem

Jesu, for thy muchele might,
Thou gef us of thy grace,
That we mowe day and night
Thenken o thy face.
In min herte it doth me god
When I thenk on Jesu blod,
That ran doun by his side,
From his herte doun to his fot;
For us he spradde his herte blod —
His wondes were so wide.

When I thenke on Jesu ded,
Min herte overwerpes;
My soule is won so is the led
For my fole werkes.
Full wo is that ilke mon
That Jesu ded ne thenkes on,
What he soffrede so sore.
For my sinnes I will wete,
And alle I wile hem forlete,
Now and evermore.

Mon that is in joye and bliss
And lith in shame and sinne,
He is more then unwis
That therof nul nout blinne.
All this world it geth away;
Me thinketh it neyith domesday;
Now man gos to grounde.
Jesu Crist, that tholede ded,
He may oure soules to hevene led
Withinne a lutel stounde.

Thagh thou have all thy wille,
Thenk on Godes wondes;
For that we ne shulde spille,
He tholede harde stoundes.
All for mon he tholede ded;
If he wile leve on his red
And leve his folie,
We shule have joye and bliss,
More then we conne seien, iwis,
In Jesu compagnie.

Jesu, that wes milde and free,
Wes with spere istongen;
He was nailed to the tree,
With scourges iswongen.
All for mon he tholede shame,
Withouten gult, withouten blame,
Bothe day and other.
Mon, full muchel he lovede thee,
When he wolde make thee free
And bicome thy brother.