The Crede

"Leve thou in oure Loverd God That al the werld wrought,

Holy heven eke on hey Holliche he fourmede, And is almyghti hymself Over alle his werkes. And wrought as his wil was The werld and the heven; And on gentil Jesu Christ, Engendred of hymselven, His owen onlyche sone, Lord over all y-knowen, That was clenlich conceived Clerli in trewthe Of the heye Holy Gost, This is the holy beleve. And of the maiden Marye Man was he born, Withouten synful seed, This is fully the byleve. With thorn y-crouned, crucified, And on the cros dyede, And sythen his blessed body Was in a stone byried, And descended a-doun To the derk helle, And fet out our formfaderes, And hy ful fayn weren. The thyrd day redeliche Hymself ros fram deeth, And, on a ston there he stod, He steigh up to hevene, And on his fader ryght hand Redelich he sitteth, That almyghti God, Over alle other whyghtes;

And is herafter to commen, Christ all himselven, To demen the quyke and the dede, Withouten any doute. And in the heighe Holy Gost Holly I beleve; And generall holy chirche also, Hold this in the minde; The communion of sayntes, For soth I to the sayn; And for our great sinnes Forgivenes for to getten, And only by Christ Clenlich to be clensed; Our bodies again to risen Right as we been here; And the liif everlasting Leve ich to habben. Amen.

"Although this flatterynge freres Wyln, for her pryde, Disputen of Godes deyté, As dotardes shulden, The more the matere is moved The masedere hi worthen. Lat the loseles alone, And leve thou the trewthe; For these maystres of dyvynité Many, als I trowe, Folwen nought fully the feith, As fele of the lewede. Whough may mannes wiit, Through werk of himselve, Knowen Christes privité,

That alle kynde passeth? It mot ben a man Of also mek an herte, That myght with his good liif The Holy Gost fongen; And thanne nedeth him nought Nevere for to studyen; He myght no maistre ben cald, For Christ that defended, Ne puten no pylion On his pild pate, But prechen in parfit liif, And no pryde usen. But al that ever I have seyd, Soth it me semeth; And al that evere I have wryten Is soth, as I trowe; And for amendyng of thise men Is most that I write. God wolde hy wolden ben war, And werchen the betere! But for I am a lewed man, Paraunter I myghte Passen par adventure, And in some poynt erren, I wil nought this matere Maistrely avowen. But gif ich have mys-said, Mercy ich aske, And pray al mannere men This matere amende, Ich a word by hymself, And al, gif it nedeth. God of his grete myght,

And his good grace, Save alle freres That feithfulli lybben! And alle tho that ben fals, Fayre hem amende, And gyve hem wiit and good wil Swiche dedes to werch, That thei may wynnen the liif That evere shal lesten." Amen.