Classic Poem

By west, under a wilde wode-side,
In a launde ther I was lente,
Wlanke deor on grounde gunne glide;
And lyouns raumping upon bente,
Beores, wolves with mouthes wide,
The smale beestes they all torente.
Ther haukes unto heore pray they hide,
Of whuche to one I tok good tente—
A merlion a brid had hente
And in hire foot heo gan it bringe;
It couthe not speke, but this it mente:
How Mercy passeth alle thinge.

Mercy was in that briddes muynde,
But therof knew the havek non,
For in hir foot heo gan it binde,
And heold it stille as eny ston;
Heo dude after the cours of kinde,
And fley into a treo anon.
Thoru kinde the brid gan Mercy finde,
For on the morwe heo let it gon.
Full stille I stod, myself alon,
To herken how that brid gan singe:
Awey wol wende bothe murthe and moon,
And Mercy passeth alle thinge.

How Mercy passeth strengthe and right,
Mony a wise seo we may;
God ordeined Mercy most of might,
To beo above his werkes ay.
Whon deore Jhesu schal be dight
To demen us at doomes-day,
Ur sunne wol beo so muche in sight
We schul not wite what we schul say.
Full fersliche Right wol us affray,
And blame us for ur misliving;
Then dar non prese for us to pray,
But Mercy that passeth alle thing.

Right wolde fleme us for ur sinne,
Might wolde don execucion;
And rightwise God then wol beginne
For to reherce us this resoun:
“I made thee, Mon, if that thou minne,
Of feture lich min owne fasoun,
And after crepte into thy kinne,
And for thee suffred passioun;
Of thornes kene then was the croun,
Full scharpe upon min hed standing;
Min herte-blood ran from me doun,
And I forgaf thee alle thing.

Min herte-blood for thee gan blede
To buye thee from the fendes blake,
And I forgaf thee thy misdede—
What hast thou suffred for my sake?
Me hungred, thou woldest not me fede;
Ne never my thurst ne woldestou slake;
Whon I of herborwe hedde gret nede,
Thou woldest not to thin hous me take.
Thou seye me among todes blake,
Full longe in harde prison lyng.
Let seo what onswere constou make:
Wher weore thou kinde in eny thing?

And how I quenched all thy care,
Lift up thin eye and thou maist see
My woundes wide, blody, all bare,
As I was raught on roode-tree.
Thou seye me for defaute forfare,
In seknes and in poverte;
Yit of thy good woldestou not spare,
Ne ones come to visite me;
All eorthly thing I gaf to thee,
Bothe beest and fisch and foul fleoyng,
And tolde thee how that Charite
And Mercy passeth alle thing.

How mightou eny mercy have
That never desiredest non to do?
Thou seye me naked and clothes crave,
Barehed and barefot gan I go;
On me thou vochedest no thing save,
But bede me wende thy wones fro.
Thou seye me ded and boune to grave,
On bere seven dayes and mo;
For litel dette I oughte thee tho,
Thou forbed my burying.
Thy Pater Noster seide not so,
For Mercy passeth alle thing.”

Theos are the werkes of Mercy sevene,
Of whuche Crist wol us areyne,
That alle schul stoney with that stevene
That ever to resoun mighte ateyne;
For heer but if we make us evene,
Ther may no might ne giftes geyne.
Thenne to the king of hevene,
The Bok seith that we schul seyne:
“Wher hastou, Lord, in prisoun leyne?
Whonne weore thou in eorthe dwelling?
Whon seye we thee in such peyne?
Whon askedest thou us eny thing?”

“Whon ye seye outher blind or lame
That for my love asked you ought;
All that ye duden in min name,
It was to me bothe deede and thought;
But ye that hated Cristendame
And of my wrathe never ne rought,
Your servise schal ben endeless schame,
Hellefuir that slakes nought.
And ye that with my blood I bought,
That loved me in youre livinge,
Ye schul have that ye have sought:
Mercy that passeth alle thinge.”

This time schal tide—it is no nay—
And well is him that hath that grace
For to plese his God to pay,
And Mercy seche while he hath space.
For beo ur mouth crommed with clay,
Wormes blake wol us enbrase—
Then is too late, Mon, in good fay,
To seche to amende of thy trespace.
With mekeness thou may hevene purchase,
Other meede thar thee non bring;
But knowe thy God in uche a case,
And love him best of any thing.

To God an mon weore holden meste
To love and his wrathe eschuwe.
Now is non so unkinde a beeste
That lasse doth that weore him duwe;
For beestes and foules, more and leeste,
The cours of kinde alle they suwe;
And whonne we breken Godes heste,
Ageynes kinde we ben untrewe.
For kinde wolde that we him knewe,
And dradde him most in ure doing;
It is no right that he us rewe,
But Mercy passeth alle thing.

Now harlotrie for murthe is holde,
And vertues tornen into vice,
And Simonye hath chirches solde,
And Lawe is ledde by Covetise;
Ur feith is frele to flecche and folde,
For treuthe is put to litel prise;
Ure God is glotenie and golde,
Dronkeness, lecherie, and dise.
Lo! Heer ur lif and ure delice,
Ur love, ur lust, and ure liking;
Yet if we wole repente and rise,
Mercy passeth alle thinge.

Unlustily ur lif we lede,
Monhod and we twinne in two;
To heven ne helle take we non hede,
But one day come, another go.
Who is a maister now but Meede,
And Pride that wakened all ur wo?
We stunte neither for schame ne drede
To teren ur God from top to to,
Forswere his soule, his herte also,
And alle the menbres that we cun minge—
Full harde vengeaunce wol falle on tho,
But Mercy passeth alle thinge.

And corteis Knighthod and Clergie,
That wont were vices to forsake,
Are now so rooted in ribaudie
That other merthes lust hem not make.
Awey is gentil Cortesie,
And Lustiness his leve hath take;
We love so slouthe and harlotrie
We slepe as swolle swin in lake;
Ther wol no worschupe with us wake
Til that Charite beo mad a king—
And then schal all ur sinne slake,
And Mercy passeth alle thing.

I munge no more of this to you,
Althaugh I couthe if that I wolde,
For ye han herd well why and how
Bigon this tale that I have tolde.
And this men knowen well inough,
For merlions feet ben colde,
It is heor kinde on bank and bough
A quik brid to haven and holde,
From foot to foot to flutte and folde
To kepe hire from clomesing—
As I an hawthorn gan biholde,
I saugh myself the same thing.

Whon heo hedde holden so all night,
On morwe heo let it gon away.
Whether Gentrie taught hire so or Righte,
I con not tell you, in good fay.
But God, as thou art full of might,
Though we plese thee not to pay,
Graunt us repentaunce and respight,
And schrift and hosel or we day;
As thou art God and mon verray,
Thou beo ur help at ure ending,
Bifore thy face that we may say:
“Now Mercy passeth alle thinge.”