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Yorkshire raised
a godly servant
Of the risen Savior King.
In his world of priestly favors
Words of truth would once more spring.
Corrupt churchmen
had no haven;
Sanctuary comes by grace.
Neither did the unrepentant
Find in John a soft embrace.
For the word was
his true compass
And he would have all to read
Those same words of revelation
And find in them their lives creed.
That Poor Preacher
took the goose quill,
Translating the ancient Greek,
Into common, vulgar English
So Gods word we all could speak.
Without Wyclyf you
would not have
Read the Book in your own tongue.
So give thanks to God for Wyclyf
Let his praise be ever sung.
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