Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A SONG OF THE LOVE OF JESUS, by RICHARD ROLLE OF HAMPOLE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A SONG OF THE LOVE OF JESUS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Luf es lyf that lastes ay, where it in criste es feste
Last Line: Jesu, gyf us grace, as thou wel may, to luf thee withowten endyng.
Variant Title(s): Love Is Life (3)
Subject(s): Jesus Christ


LUF es lyf that lastes ay, where it in Criste es feste,
For weal na wa it chaunge may, als wryten has men wyseste.
The night it tournes intil the day, the travel intil reste;
If thou wil luf thus as I say, you may be with the beste.

Lufe es thought wyth grete desyre of a fayre loving;
Lufe I lyken til a fyre that sloken may na thyng;
Lufe us clenses of oure syn; luf us bote sal bryng;
Lufe the King's hert may wyn; luf of joy may syng.

The settel of lufe es lyft hee, for intil heven it ranne;
Me thynk in earth it es sle, that makes men pale and wanne;
The bede of blisse it gase ful nee, I tel thee as I kanne:
Though us thynk the way be dread, luf copuls God and Manne.

Lufe es hotter than the cole; lufe may none beswyke.
The flame of lufe wha myght it thole, if it war ay ilyke?
Luf us comfortes, and mase in qwart, and liftes til hevenryke;
Luf ravyshes Cryste intil owr hert; I wate ne lust it lyke.

Lere to lufe if thou wil life when thou sal heven fare;
All thy thought to Hym thou give that may thee kepe fra care;
Loke thy hert fra Hym noght turn if thou in wandreth ware;
Sa thou may Hym welde and win, and luf Hym evermare.

Jesu that me lyfe has lent, intil Thy lufe me bryng!
Take til Thee al myne entent, that thou be my yearning.
Wa fra me away war went, and comne war my covaytyng,
If that my soul had herd and hent the song of Thy loving.

Thy lufe es ay lastyng, fra that we gar it fele;
Therein make my burning that na thyng may it kele.
My thought take into Thy hand, and stabyl it ylk a dele,
That I be naught heldand to luf this worldes wele.

If I luf any erthly thyng that payes to my wyll,
And settes my joy and my liking when it may comm me tyll,
I mai drede of parting, that wil be hate and yll:
For al my welth es bot wepyng when paine me soule sal spyll.

The joy that men has sene es lyckend tyl the haye,
That now es faire and grene and now wytes awaye.
Such is this world, I wene, and bees til Domesdaye,
All in travel and tene, fle that ne man it maye.

If thou lufe in al thy thought, and hate the fylth of syn,
And gyf Hym thy soule that it bought, that He thee dwell within,
Als Cryste thy soule hase sought, and thereof walde nought blyn,
Sa thou sal to blys be brought, and heven won within.

The kind of lufe es this, there it es trayst and trew,
To stand stil in stabylness, and change it for na new.
The lyfe that lufe myght find, or ever in hert it knew,
Fra kare it tornes that kyend, and lendes it mirth and glew.

For now, lufe thou, I rede, Cryste, as I thee tell,
And with angels take thy stand, that joy loke you not sell!
In erth thou hate, I rede, all that thy lufe may fell,
For luf es stalworth as the dede, luf es hard as hell.

Luf es a light burden; lufe gladdes young and alde;
Lufe es withouten paine, as lofers hase me talde;
Lufe es a gastly wyne, that makes men bygge and balde;
Of lufe sal he na thyng tyne that hit in hert will halde.

Lufe es the swetest thyng that man in erth hase tane;
Luf es Goddes derlyng, lufe bindes blude and bane.
In luf be owr liking, I ne wate na better wane,
For me and my lufyng lufe makes bath be ane.

Bot fleshly luf sal fare as dose the flowr in May,
And lastand be ne mare than ane houre of a day,
And sythen sigh ful sare their lust, their pryde, their play,
When they are casten in kare til paine that lastes ay.

When their bodies lyse in syn, their sauls mai quake and drede,
For up sal ryse al men, and answer for their dede.
If they be fonden in syn, als now their lyfe they lede,
They sal sitt hel within, and myrknes hafe to mede.

Riche men their hande sal wryng, and wicked werkes sal by
In flame of fire, bath knyght and keyng, with sorow schamfully.
If thou wil lufe, then may thou syng to Cryste in melody;
The luf of Hym overcoms al thyng, thereto thou traiste trewly.

I sygh and sob, bath day and nyght, for ane sa fayre of hew!
There is na thyng my hert may lyght, bot luf that ay es new.
Wha sa had Hym in his syght, or in his hert Hym knew,
His mourning turned til joy ful bryght, his sang intil glew.

In mirth he lyves, nyght and day, that lufes that swete chylde;
It es Jesu, forsoth I say, of al mekest and mylde.
Wreth fra hym walde al away, though he wer never so wylde,
He that in hert lufed Hym that day, fra evel He wil hym schylde.

Of Jesu mast lyst me speke, that al my bale may bete;
Me thynk my hert may al tobreke when I thynk on that swete.
In lufe lacyd He hase my thought, that I sal never forgete.
Ful dere me thynk he hase me bought with blodi hande and fete.

For luf my hert es bowne to brest, when I that faire behalde,
Lufe es fair there it es fest, that never wil be calde;
Lufe us reves the nyght rest, in grace it makes us balde,
Of al werkes lufe es the best, as haly men me talde.

Na wonder of grief I syghand be, and sithen in sorrow be sette:
Jesu was nailed upon the tre, and al blody forbette.
To thynk on Hym es grete pyte -- how tenderly he grette --
This hase he sufferde, man, for thee, if that thou syn wyll lette.

There is na tong in erth may tell of lufe the swetenesse.
That steadfastly in lufe kan dwell, his joy es endelesse.
God schylde that he sulde til hell, that lufe and langand es,
Or ever his enemis sulde hym quell, or make his luf be lesse.

Jesu es lufe that lastes ay, til Hym es owr langyng;
Jesu the night turns to the day, the dawyng intil spryng.
Jesu thynk on us now and ay, for Thee we halde oure keyng;
Jesu, gyf us grace, as Thou wel may, to luf Thee withowten endyng.





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