Love is Life

Luf es lyf þat lastes ay, þar it in Criste es feste,
For wele ne wa it chaunge may, als wryten has men wyseste.
þe nyght it tournes in til þe day, & trauel in tyll reste;
If þou wil luf þus as I say, þou may be wyth þe beste.

Lufe es thoght, wyth grete desyre, of a fayre louyng;
Lufe I lyken til a fyre þat sloken may na thyng;
Lufe vs clenses of oure syn, lufe vs bote sail bryng;
Lufe þe keynges hert may wyn, lufe of ioy may syng.

þe settel of lufe es lyft hee, for in til heuen it ranne;
Me thynk in erth it es sle, þat makes men pale and wanne.
þe bede of blysse it gase ful nee, I tel þe as I kanne,
þof vs thynk þe way be dregh; luf copuls god & manne.

Lufe es hatter þen þe cole, lufe may nane be-swyke;
þe flawme of lufe wha myght it thole, if it war ay I-lyke?
Luf vs comfortes, & mase in qwart, & lyftes tyl heuen-ryke;
Luf rauysches Cryste in tyl owr hert, I wate na lust it lyke.

Lere to luf, if þou wyl lyfe when þou sail hethen fare.
All þi thoght til hym þou gyf, þat may þe kepe fra kare;
Loke þi hert fra hym noght twyn, if þou in wandreth ware,
Sa þou may hym welde & wyn and luf hym euer-mare.

Ihesu þat me lyfe hase lent, In til þi lufe me bryng,
Take til þe al myne entent, þat þow be my ȝhernyng.
Wa fra me away war went & comne war my couytyng,
If þat my sawle had herd & hent þe sang of þi louyng.

þi lufe es ay lastand, fra þat we may it fele:
þare-in make me byrnand, þat na thyng gar it kele.
My thoght take in to þi hand, & stabyl it ylk a dele,
þat I be noght heldand to luf þis worldes wele.

If I lufe any erthly thyng þat payes to my wyll,
& settes my ioy & my lykyng when it may com me tyll,
I mai drede of partyng, þat wyll be hate and yll:
For al my welth es bot wepyng, when pyne mi saule sal spyll.

þe ioy þat men hase sene, es lyckend tyl þe haye,
þat now es fayre & grene, and now wytes awaye.
Swylk es þis worlde, I wene, & bees till domes-daye,
All in trauel & tene, fle þat na man it maye.

If þou luf in all þi thoght, and hate þe fylth of syn,
And gyf hym þi sawle þat it boght, þat he be dwell with-in:
Als Crist þi sawle hase soght & þer-of walde noght blyn,
Sa þou sal to blys be broght, & heuen won with-in.

þe kynd of luf es þis, þar it es trayst and trew:
To stand styll in stabylnes, & chaunge it for na new.
þe lyfe þat lufe myght fynd or euer in hert it knew,
Fra kare it tornes þat kyend, & lendes in myrth & glew.

For now lufe þow, I rede, Cryste, as I þe tell:
And with aungels take þi stede — þat ioy loke þou noght sell!
In erth þow hate, I rede, all þat þi lufe may fell:
For luf es stalworth as þe dede, luf es hard as hell.

Luf es a lyght byrthen, lufe gladdes ȝong and alde,
Lufe es with-owten pyne, als lofers hase me talde;
Lufe es a gastly wynne, þat makes men bygge & balde,
Of lufe sal he na thyng tyne þat hit in hert will halde.

Lufe es þe swettest thyng þat man in erth hase tane,
Lufe es goddes derlyng, lufe byndes blode & bane.
In lufe be owre lykyng, I ne wate na better wane,
For me & my lufyng lufe makes bath be ane.

Bot fleschly lufe sal fare as dose þe flowre in may,
And lastand be na mare þan ane houre of a day,
And sythen syghe ful sare þar lust, þar pride, þar play,
When þai er casten in kare, til pyne þat lastes ay.

When þair bodys lyse in syn, þair sawls mai qwake & drede:
For vp sal ryse al men, and answer for þair dede;
If þai be fonden in syn, als now þair lyfe þai lede,
þai sail sytt hel within, & myrknes hafe to mede.

Riche men þair handes sal wryng, & wicked werkes sal by
In flawme of fyre bath knyght & keyng, with sorow schamfully.
If þou wil lufe, þan may þou syng til Cryst in melody,
þe lufe of hym ouercoms al thyng, þarto þou traiste trewly.

I sygh & sob, bath day & nyght, for ane sa fayre of hew.
þar es na thyng my hert mai light, bot lufe, þat es ay new.
Wha sa had hym in his syght, or in his hert hym knew,
His mournyng turned til ioy ful bryght, his sang in til glew.

In myrth he lyfes, nyght & day, þat lufes þat swete chylde:
It es Ihesu, forsoth I say, of all mekest & mylde.
Wreth fra hym walde al a-way, þof he wer neuer sa wylde;
He þat in hert lufed hym, þat day fra euel he wil hym schylde.

Of Ihesu mast lyst me speke, þat al my bale may bete.
Me thynk my hert may al to-breke, when I thynk on þat swete.
In lufe lacyd he hase my thoght, þat I sal neuer forgete:
Ful dere me thynk he hase me boght, with blodi hende & fete.

For luf my hert es bowne to brest, when I þat faire behalde.
Lufe es fair þare it es fest, þat neuer will be calde.
Lufe vs reues þe nyght rest, in grace it makes vs balde;
Of al warkes luf es þe best, als haly men me talde.

Na wonder gyf I syghand be & sythen in sorow be sette:
Ihesu was nayled apon þe tre, & al blody for-bette;
To þynk on hym es grete pyte, how tenderly he grette —
þis hase he sufferde, man, for þe, if þat þou syn wyll lette.

þare es na tonge in erth may tell of lufe þe swetnesse;
þat stedfastly in lufe kan dwell, his ioy es endlesse.
God schylde þat he sulde til hell þat lufes & langand es,
Or euer his enmys sulde hym qwell, or make his luf be lesse!

Ihesu es lufe þat lastes ay: til hym es owre langyng;
Ihesu þe nyght turnes to þe day, þe dawyng in til spryng.
Ihesu, þynk on vs, now & ay: for þe we halde oure keyng;
Ihesu, gyf vs grace, as þou wel may, to luf þe with-owten endyng.