Classic Poem

Swete Jesu, king of blisse,
Min herte love, min herte lisse,
Thou art swete mid iwisse.
Wo is him that thee shall misse!

Swete Jesu, min herte light,
Thou art day withoute night,
Thou geve me streinthe and eke might
For to lovien thee aright.

Swete Jesu, min herte bote,
In min herte thou sete a rote
Of thy love, that is so swote,
And leve that it springe mote.

Swete Jesu, min herte gleem,
Brightore then the sonnebeem,
Ibore thou were in Bedleheem;
Thou make me here thy swete dreem.

Swete Jesu, thy love is swete;
Wo is him that thee shall lete!
Gif me grace for to grete
For my sinnes teres wete.

Swete Jesu, king of londe,
Thou make me fer understonde
That min herte mote fonde
How swete beth thy love-bonde.

Swete Jesu, Louerd min,
My lif, min herte, all is thin;
Undo min herte and light therin,
And wite me from fendes engin.

Swete Jesu, my soule fode,
Thin werkes beth bo swete and gode;
Thou boghtest me upon the rode;
For me thou sheddest thy blode.

Swete Jesu, me reoweth sore
Gultes that I ha wroght yore;
Tharefore I bidde thin milse and ore;
Mercy, Lord, I nul namore.

Swete Jesu, Louerd God,
Thou me boghtest with thy blod;
Out of thin herte orn the flod;
Thy moder it segh that thee by stod.

Swete Jesu, bright and shene,
I preye thee thou here my bene
Thourgh ernding of the hevene quene,
That thy love on me be sene.

Swete Jesu, berne best,
With thee ich hope habbe rest;
Whether I be south other west,
The help of thee be me nest.

Swete Jesu, well may him be
That thee may in blisse see.
With love-cordes drawe thou me
That I may comen and wone with thee.

Swete Jesu, hevene king,
Feir and best of alle thing,
Thou bring me of this longing
To come to thee at min ending.

Swete Jesu, all folkes reed,
Graunte us er we buen ded
Thee underfonge in fourme of bred,
And sethe to heovene thou us led.