"Sone, thou art so meke ant mynde, Ne wyt me naht, hit is my kynde,

that y for the this sorewe make."

"Moder, nou thou miht wel leren, Whet sorewe haveth that children beren, whet sorewe hit is with childe gon." "Sorewe y-wis, y con the telle; Bote hit be the pyne of helle,

more sorewe wot y non."

"Moder, rew of moder kare,

For nou thou wost of moder fare,

thou thou be clene mayden mon."

Sone, help at alle nede

Alle tho that to me grede,

maiden, wif, ant fol wymmon." "Moder, may y no lengore duelle, The time is come y shal to helle, the thridde day y ryse upon."

66

Sone, y wil with the founden,

Y deye y-wis for thine wounden,

so soreweful ded nes never non."

When he ros, tho fel hire sorewe, Hire blisse sprong the thridde morewe, blythe moder were thou tho.

Levedy, for that ilke blisse,

Bysech thi sone of sunnes lisse,

thou be oure sheld azeyn oure fo.

Blessed be thou, ful of blysse,
Let us never hevene misse,

thourh thi suete sones myht! Loverd, for that ilke blod,

That thou sheddest on the rod,

thou bring us in to hevene lyht

AMEN.

XXVIII.

[Fol. 79, vo.]

JESU, for thi muchele miht,
thou sef us of thi grace,
That we mowe dai ant nyht
thenken o thi face.

In myn herte hit doth me god,
When y thenke on Jesu blod,
that ran doun bi ys syde,
From his herte doun to his fot,
For ous he spradde is herte blod,
his wondes were so wyde.

When y thenke on Jhesu ded,

min herte over-werpes, Mi soule is won so is the led

for my fole werkes.

Ful wo is that ilke mon,

That Jhesu ded ne thenkes on,

what he soffrede so sore!

For my synnes y wil wete,

Ant alle y wyle hem for-lete

nou ant evermore.

Mon that is in joie ant blis, ant lith in shame ant synne, He is more then un-wis

that ther-of nul nout blynne. Al this world hit geth a-way, Me thynketh hit nezyth domesday, nou man gos to grounde;

Jhesu Crist that tholede ded,

He may oure soules to hevene led, withinne a lutel stounde.

Thah thou have al thi wille, thenk on Godes wondes, For that we ne shulde spille, he tholede harde stoundes; Al for mon he tholede ded, 3yf he wyle leve on is red,

ant leve his folie,

We shule have joie ant blis,

More then we conne seien y-wys

in Jesu compagnie.

Jhesu, that wes milde ant fre,

wes with spere y-stonge;

He was nailed to the tre,

with scourges y-swongen.

Al for mon he tholede shame,

Withouten gult, withouten blame, bothe day ant other.

Mon, ful muchel he lovede the,
When he wolde make the fre,

ant bicome thi brother.

XXIX.

[Fol. 80, ro.]

I SYKE when y singe, X
for sorewe that y se,
When y with wypinge
biholde upon the tre,
Ant se Jhesu the suete,
Is herte blod for-lete,

for the love of me;

Ys'woundes waxen wete,

Thei wepen stille ant mete:
Marie, reweth the.

Heze upon a doune,

ther al folk hit se may, A mile from uch toune, aboute the midday, The rode is up arered, His frendes aren afered

ant clyngeth so the clay;

The naylles beth to stronge,
the smythes are to sleye,
Thou bledest al to longe,
the tre is al to heyze;
The stones beoth al wete,
Alas! Jhesu the suete,

for nou frend hast thou non, Bote Seint Johan to-mournynde, Ant Marie wepynde,

for pyne that the ys on.

Ofte when y sike

ant makie my mon,

Wel ille thah me like,

wonder is hit non,