| [Poems from the Vernon MS] | ||
Ovre ladi seide: “I was þere þo,
Sore I wep and wrong myn honde;
Whon þe Iewes him ladde me fro,
To folwe him wepinge miȝt I not wonde.
No wonder was þeiȝ me were wo,
Ac hit was wonder I miȝte stonde,
Whon I seiȝ hym to peyne go
And beo bounden in hard bonde.
Sore I wep and wrong myn honde;
Whon þe Iewes him ladde me fro,
To folwe him wepinge miȝt I not wonde.
No wonder was þeiȝ me were wo,
Ac hit was wonder I miȝte stonde,
Whon I seiȝ hym to peyne go
And beo bounden in hard bonde.
“On Cene-þursday wiþ-Inne þe niht
Cayphas him nom, him þhouȝte gome,
Wiþ swerdes and wiþ lanternes briht,
And clepede him Ihesu by his nome.
He onswerde: ‘I am her riht.
Do my disciples for me no schome!’
ffor alle þe peynes þat him were diht,
He nolde his frendes hedde no blame.
Cayphas him nom, him þhouȝte gome,
Wiþ swerdes and wiþ lanternes briht,
And clepede him Ihesu by his nome.
He onswerde: ‘I am her riht.
Do my disciples for me no schome!’
ffor alle þe peynes þat him were diht,
He nolde his frendes hedde no blame.
“ffor no chesoun of his takyng
He wolde no mon þe worse were:
Þat schewed he wel in alle þing,
Boþe here and elles-where.
Peter, for soþe, made fihtyng
And smot sone of a Iewes ere:
Mi sone him blamed for þat þing
And also-swiþe heled hit þere.
He wolde no mon þe worse were:
Þat schewed he wel in alle þing,
Boþe here and elles-where.
Peter, for soþe, made fihtyng
And smot sone of a Iewes ere:
306
And also-swiþe heled hit þere.
“Iudas was ful of þe ffend,
fful wel my sone his tresun wust:
Þer he cleped him his frend
And Mekeliche he him cust.
Þe Iewes of harm hedde non ende,
Mi sone to-beten and to-pust,
Wiþ strokes þei gunne to him wende
And leyden on hym wiþ staf & fust.”
fful wel my sone his tresun wust:
Þer he cleped him his frend
And Mekeliche he him cust.
Þe Iewes of harm hedde non ende,
Mi sone to-beten and to-pust,
Wiþ strokes þei gunne to him wende
And leyden on hym wiþ staf & fust.”
| [Poems from the Vernon MS] | ||