Classic Poem

Jesus doth him bimene,
And speketh to sinful mon:
" Thy garland is of grene,
Of floures many on;
Mine of sharpe thornes —
Mine hewe it maketh won.

" Thine hondes streite gloved,
White and clene kept;
Mine with nailes thorled,
On Rode, and eke my feet.

" Across thou berest thine armes,
Whan thou dauncest narewe.
To me hastou non awe,
But to worldes glorye.
Mine for thee on Rode
With the Jewes wode
With grete ropes todraw.

" Opene thou hast thy side,
Spayers longe and wide,
For veinglorye and pride,
And thy longe knif astrout —
Thou ert of the gay route:
Mine with spere sharpe
Istongen to the herte;
My body with scourges smerte
Beswongen all aboute.

" All that I tholede on Rode for thee
To me was shame and sorwe:
Well little thou lovest me,
And lasse thou thenkest on me,
An evene and eke amorwe.

" Swete brother, well might thou se
Thes peines stronge in Rode Tre
Have I tholed for love of thee.
They that have wrought it me
May singe, " Welawo " .
Be thou kinde, pur charite,
Let thy sinne and love thou me:
Hevene blisse I shall yeve thee,
That lasteth ay and oo."