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Lusten to me, my Broþer Bernard,
I wol þe telle of peynes more—
Þyn herte schal ben ful hard,
But hit greue þe ful sore;
Þauh I haue a parti spard
Of his peynes herbifore,
I wol þe telle her-afturward
His harm an hundred siþe sore.
“Bernard, I saiȝ my sone honge
As þauȝ he were a Mayster-þef,
His Bak and syden sore I-swonge

312

Þat white were and me ful lef.
He was Crouned wiþ þornes stronge,
In eueri syde þei duden him gref,
And drowen him on þe cros a-longe,
His senewes to-bursten & to-dref.
“Þe blod ron doun bi Bodi and heued—
Þat lykede þe corsede Iewes wel!
Wiþ spotel & blod he was be-weued,
Þat he was lyk a foul Mesel.
He was to-drawen and to-dreued
And Nayled wiþ þre Nayles of stel.
Þen was my strengþe me be-reued,
And al-most a-doun I fel.
“I seiȝ where foure welles were
Out of his lymes ron o-blode.
Bernard frend, my sone dere
Þus him seruede þe Iewes wode!
Ich hedde gret blisse whon I him bere,
And of his þewes monye and gode:

313

[Þen] al wox won Bodi and leore,
Þat feirest was of alle fode.
“So feir ȝit was neuer nomon,
As bereþ witnesse holy writ:
Þenne was his beute al a-gon,
As þe gospel telleþ hit.
I hedde a sone, nou haue I non,
Me wonteþ boþe weole and wit;
I not in world whoder to gon
ffor serwe þat in myn herte sit.
“Bernard, hedde I honged him bi,
Sum-tyme my serwe hedde be pas.
I stod and loked vppon hiȝ,
Wher heng my ioye and my solas.
Þe Iewes seiȝ me ful sori,
Þer as I stod in þe plas:
ffor þat I made sereweful cri,
Þei beede me schome and harde gras.
“ffaste I criȝede in my manere,
Ȝut ne was I not I-herd;
Þo I criȝede, he mihte me here,
Witnesse boþe of lewed and lered;
‘Merci!’ I criȝede to my sone dere,

314

‘Al-one þou leue[st] me in desert!’
Þenne he bi-tok me til a fere
And bad, I scholde not ben a-ferd.