 | Die Gedichte des Franziskaners Jakob Ryman |  |
CXLVII. To the we make oure mone,
Moder of Crist, alone.
1
Sith thou hast born the kyng of grace,Thatt sittith so highe in trone,
Therfore atte nede in euery case
To þe we make our mone.
2
Sith thou art quene of euery place,Thou maist graunt us oure bone;
Therfore, while we haue tyme and space,
To þe we make our mone.
3
Sith of mercy thou berist the maceAnd so doth othere none,
Therfore before thy sonnys face
For us make thou thy mone.
4
Sith all oure trust is putte in theNext vnto god alone,
Therfore, moder of Crist so fre,
At nede here þou our mone.
5
When we shall dye and yelde our gostAnd owte of this worlde gone,
Besiche thatte lorde of myghtis most
Mekely to here our mone.
6
When we shall stonde atte domys dayBefore thy sonne echone,
Be oure confort then, we the pray,
Modere of Crist, alone.
| Die Gedichte des Franziskaners Jakob Ryman | |