Classic Poem

Undo thy dore, my spuse dere!
Alas, why stond I loken out here?
For am I thy make!

Loke my lokkes and eek min heved
And all my body with blod beweved
For thy sake.

Alas! Alas! evel have I sped;
For senne Jesu is fro me fled,
My trewe fere.

Withouten my gate he stant alone,
Sorfuliche he maket his mone
On his manere.

Lord, for senne I sike sore,
Forgef and I ne will no more,

With all my might senne I forsake;
And opne min herte thee inne to take.

For thin herte is cloven oure love to kecchen;
Thy love is chosen us alle to fecchen;

Min herte it therlede if I wer kende
Thy swete love to haven in mende.

Perce min herte with thy lovinge,
That in thee I have my dwellinge.