University of Virginia Library

Here bygynneþ medytacyuns of þe soper of oure lorde Ihesu. And also of hys passyun. And eke of þe peynes of hys swete modyr, Mayden marye. þe whyche made yn latyn Bonauenture Cardynall.

Alle myȝty god yn trynyte,
Now & euer wyþ vs be;
For þy sones passyun
Saue alle þys congregacyun;
And graunte vs grace of gode lyuyng
To wynne vs blysse wyþouten endyng.
Now euery man, yn hys degre,
Sey amen, amen, pur charyte.
Thou crysten creature, by goddes grace,
Opone þyn herte and hyde þy face;
For þou shalt chaunge þy chere a none,
Or elles þyn herte ys harder þan stone.
Y wyl þe lere a medytacyun
Compyled of crystys passyun;
And of hys modyr, þat ys dere,
What peynes þey suffred þou mayst lere.
Take hede, for y wyl no þyng seye
But þat ys preued by crystes feye,
By holy wryt, or seyntes sermons,
Or by dyuers holy opynyons.
Whan þou þenkest þys yn þy þoȝt
Thyr may no fende noye þe with noȝt.

Now of þe soper of oure lorde Ihesu.

Comyng þe tyme of grete mercy,
Whan god sent hys sone down fro hy,
Of a mayden he wulde be bore,
To saue mankynde þat was forlore.
But noþer with corupt syluer ne golde;
But wyþ hys blode, by vs he wulde.
Whan tyme was come to suffre þys
A soper he made to hys dycyplys;
Are he were ded and shuld fro hem wende,
A memorand þyng to haue yn mynde.
Þys soper was real as þou mayst here,
Foure real þynges cryst made þere.
Ȝyf þou þenke weyl on þys fedyng,
God wyl nat late þe passe fastyng.
Foure þynges þou most haue yn þy þoȝt,
Þat yn þys soper cryst haþ wroȝt:
Þe fyrst ys a bodly fedyng,
Þe secunde ys hys dycyples fete wasshyng,
Þe þred yn brede hym self takyng,
Þe fourþe a sermoun of feyre makyng.

The fyrst poynt of þe soper.

Now to þe fyrst:—take gode entent
How petyr and iohne from hym he sent,
Yn to þe mounte of syon,
To greyþe hys paske aȝens ne com.
And on a þursday þedyr he lyȝt
Wyþ hys dycyplys aȝens nyȝt.
Þe soper was dyȝt, as y herd sey,
By dyscyplys seuenty and twey;
Seynt Martyals legende wytnesseþ ryȝt,
With hem he was þe soper to dyȝt.
Whan þe soper was made redy,
Cryst sette hym down, and þey hym by;
Iohne þe euangelyst sate hym nexte,
Al þogh he were of age ȝungeste;
To hym was none of hem echone
So trusty and so trewe as was Iohne:
For fere wulde he nat fle hym fro,
Tyl he was ded and byryed also.
Byholde now, man, and þou shalt se
How euery man sate yn hys degre.
Here table was brode and foure square,
The maner of þat cuntre was swych þare;
On euery syde sate of hem þre,
And cryst yn a corner mekely to se:
So þat here by þou mayst lere
Þat of o dysshe þey etyn yn fere,
Þarfore þe myȝt nat vndyrstonde
Whan cryst seyd, “he þat hys honde
Yn my dysshe putteþ furþ ryȝt,
He shal betraye me þys nyȝt.”
Thys table at rome men haue seyn,
Yn seynt Iohne chyrche þe latereyn.
A nouþer maner mayst þou vndyrstande,
Þat þey stonde with staues yn honde,
Etyng faste, and stondyng stylle,
Moyses lawe to fulfylle.
Cryst lete hem sytte, so semeþ best,
For elles ne had Ione slept one hys brest.
When graces were seyd, and alle men sette,
Here paske lombe rosted furþe was fette.
Thys lomb toke vp cryst Ihesus,
A verry lombe slayn for vs,
Alle yn smale gobettes he hyt kytte;
For vs as a seruaunt wyþ hem he sytte,
With hem he ete ryȝt with glad chere,
And cunforted hem to ete yn fere,
But euer þey dredde to ete gladlygh,
For sum sorowe semed hem nygh.
Whyles þey ete on þys manere,
Cryst seyd þese wurdes dere:—
“Long haue y desyred with ȝow, y seye,
Þys paske to ete ar þat y deye:
Forsoþe, þe soþe to ȝow y seye,
One of ȝow shal me betraye.”
Byholde now, man, what sorowe and wo
Þe dycyplys toke to hem þo;
Þys voys as a swerd here hertes persed,
And to ete anone þey seced.
Eche loked on ouþer with grysly ye,
And seyd, “lorde wheþer hyt be y?”
Þe treytur ete faste, and wulde nat blyn,
As þogh þe tresun come nat by hym.
Pryuyly þan Ion to cryst gan prey,
And seyd, “lorde, who shal þe betrey?”
For specyal loue cryst hyt hym tolde,
“Iudas skaryot,” he seyd, “beholde.”
Þan Iohne þoȝte hys herte wulde breste,
And leyd hys hede on crystys breste.
Ful mekely cryste lete hym lye stylle,
And suffred hym do alle hys wylle.
Why cryst wulde nat to petyr telle,
Yn austyns sermoun þou mayst hyt spelle;
Ȝyf cryst þys treytur hym had tolde,
With nayles and teþ rent hym þey wulde.
Byholde what mekenes yn hym reste,
To holde hys dycyple so on hys brest.
A! how tendyrly þey loued yn fere,
Y wys to loue, here mayst þou lere.
Þenk, man, also a ruly þoȝt,
What s[orow]e hys dyscyplys ben yn broȝt.
At cry[stys] wurde, beholde, a none
Þey etyn no more but madyn here mone;
Eche of hem loked vp-on ouþer,
But cunseyl coude none take of ouþer.
Beþenke, and holde þys weyl yn þy mende,
How þys soper ys broȝt now to an ende.

The secunde poynt of the soper.

The secunde poynt, beþenke þe weyl,
For grete mekenes hyt wyl þe spelle.
Whan þe soper was do, cryst ros anone,
And with hym þey ryse vp euerychone;
To a logher place þey gunne þan to go,
Þey þat þe hous haue sey seyn ryȝt so.
He made hem sytte downe yn þat stede;
Beholde, and þenke weyl on crystys dede;
Hys cloþes he cast of swyþe sone,
Hys dycyplys wundred what he wulde done;
With a towel hym self he gert,
Watyr he badde brynge furþe smert,
He hyt yn a stonen bacyn put,
To wasshe here fete greued hym nat.
Petyr refused al þat seruyse;
Cryst bad hym suffre on alle wyse.
Beholde now, man, eche doyng,
And þenke þys mekenes with grete wundryng,
That þe hygh mageste and myȝtyest eke,
Boweþ hym downe to a fysshers fete.
He stode krokyng, on knees knelyng,
Afore hys cretures fete syttyng.
Wyþ hys handys hys fete he wassheþ,
He wypeþ he cleppeþ, and swetly kysseþ.
Of a more mekenes ȝyt mayst þou gryse,
Þat he to hys treytur dyd þe same wyse.
O Iudas, sore a shamed þou be may,
So meke and so myþe a mayster to tray;
Þyn herte ys harder þan any hardnesse,
Aȝens swyche mekenes deþ for to dresse.
Whan cryst þys seruyse had alle ydone,
To þe sopyng place aȝen þan þey come.
By þys ensample, and many ouþer,
He conforted hem to do to here broþer.
Man, here beþenke, yn eche degre,
How feyre ensample cryst shewed to þe;
Ensample of mekenes to þe he lete,
Whan he wysshe hys dyscyplys fete;
A grete ensample of mekenes loke,
Whan he hys flesshe to þy fode toke.
A feyre monasshyng hys sermoun shewed,
Þat þe lered men shulde teche þe lewed.
Pacyens he suffred, hys treytur suffryng
So shamely to þe deþ, as a þef hym bryng;
Yn goyng to þe deþ, he shewed obedyens
Yn fulfyllyng hys faders comoundemens.
Stedfastly for to prey here mayst þou lere,
For he preyd fyrst þryys ar hys fadyr wulde here.
By þese vertues folue hym, y rede,
And yn to hys blys þey wyl þe lede.

The þrydde poynt of þe soper.

The þryd poynt, man, haue yn mynde,
How derwurly, afore hys ende,
A derwurþ ȝyfte he wulde with þe lete,
Hym self al hole vn to þy mete.
Whan he hadde wasshe here al þer fete,
And seten aȝen þere as þey ete,
A newe testament he gan sone,
Þe olde sacryfyce to fordone;
A new sacryfyce hym self he fonde,
And toke vp brede yn hys holy honde,
And to hys fadyr lyfte vpp hys ye,
He blessed and made hys precyus body;
To hys dycyplys he hyt ȝaue, and seyd,
“Þys ys my body for ȝow betrayed.”
Also of the chalys drynke he hem bad,
“Þys ys my blode þat shal be shad.”
Yn a memorand of hym with outyn ende,
He seyd, “makeþ þys yn my mende.”
Beholde, how trewly and how deuoutly
He comunde and conforted þat blessed meyny.
Þys mete shulde, most of any þyng,
Glade þy soule yn euery werchyng;
Þyn herte shulde brenne for grete loue,
Whan þou hyt takest to þy behoue;
No þyng more profytable, ne more chere,
Þan hym self ne myȝt he leue here.
Þat sacrament, þat þou seest þe before,
Wundyrfully of a mayden was bore,
Fro heuene he lyȝte for þe to deye,
He ros fro deþ to heuene to stye;
On goddys ryȝt honde he ys syttyng;
He made heuene and erthe and alle þyng;
He gouerneþ alle þyng swetly and best,
He þat þou seest yn þe prestes fest,
Yn whos powere onely hyt ys
To ȝyue þe blys, or endeles blys;
He þat þou seest, yn forme of brede,
Hyt ys goddys sone, quyk and dede.
With clene herte þou hym receyue,
For elles þy soule þou wylt deceyue.

The fourþe poynt of þe soper.

Here begynneþ þe passyun.

Now crystyn creature, take goode hede,
And do þyn herte for pyte to blede;
Loþe þou nat hys sorowes to se,
Þe whych hym loþed nat to suffre for þe.
Beholde and þenke with ruly mone
What peynes he suffred ar morowe none;
Beholde hym yn an orcherd syttyng,
Hys treytur þere mekely abydyng;
He byt hys dyscyplys pray and wake,
Þat none temptacyun ȝow ouertake;
A stones kast þan from hem he went,
And to hys dere fadyr hys knees he bent.
Now þenke how mekely and how reuerently,
To hys swete fadyr he preyeþ an hy:—
“My wurschypful fadyr, y pray to þe,
Bowe þyn eres and lestene to me,
Here my bone and dyspyse hyt noȝt,
For sorowe my soule haþ ȝow soȝt;
My spyryt ys anguyssed ful sore yn me,
Myn herte ys dysturbled, fadyr, now se;
Þou sentest me hedyr, as þy wyl ys,
To bye mankynde aȝen to blys;
To do þy wyl, y seyd y go;
Yn þe bokes hede hyt ys wryte so;
Here haue y be and preched þyn helþe,
Yn pouert, yn trauayle & noþyng yn welþe:
Fadyr, þyn hestes y haue fulfylt,
And more y wyl, ȝyf þou wylt;
Þou seest what sorowe ys to me dyȝt,
Of my foos aȝens alle ryȝt,
Ȝyf any wykkednes ys yn me founde,
Or euyl for euyl haue ȝyue astounde,
Þan were y wurþy þese peynes to fong;
But, fadyr, þou wost weyl þey do me wrong;
Euyl for gode þey haue me ȝoue,
And also grete hate for my loue.
My dyscyple, whych y haue chersed,
Me to betraye hym haue þey hyred;
At þrytty pens my mede ys take,
Þey haue me preysed my wo to awake;
My swete fadyr, y prey to þe,
Ryse vp redyly yn helpe of me,
For þogh þey wyte nat þat y am þy sone,
Ȝyt, by cause þat y here wone,
Lyuyng with hem Innocent lyfe,
Þey shulde nat shape me so grete stryfe.
Þenk þat y stode afore þy syȝt,
To speke for hem boþe gode and ryȝt,
To turne a waye from hem, fadyr, þy mode,
But wheþer nat euyl be ȝulde for gode;
For þey to my soule deluyn a lake,
A vyleynys deþ to me þey shape;
Wharfore, dere fadyr, ȝyf hyt mow be,
Y prey þat þys deþ mow go fro me;
Ȝyf þou se hyt be nat so best,
Þy wyl be ydo, ryȝt as þou lest.
But, fadyr, myn herte y betake þe,
Kepe hyt and strenþe hyt how so hyt be.”
To hys dyscyplys hys wey þan he toke,
He fond hem slepyng and hem sone awoke:
Here yen were slepy and heuy as clay,
He bad hem algates wake and pray.
Aȝen to pray he toke hys pas,
Twyys, þryys, yn dyuers place.
Þe same orysun þat he preyd byfore,
He preyd now and ded to more:
“Fadyr, ȝyf þys deþ mow nat fro me go,
Y am here, þy wyl be algates do.
My swete modyr, fadyr, y þe betake,
My breþren also, kepe hem fro wrake;
Y kepte hem þyrwhylys y was with hem,
My derwurþe fadyr, now kepe þou þem.”
Þus long he preyd tyl þat he wax hote,
For anguys hys blode ran down ryȝt as swote.
Man, take ensample here at goddes sone,
Whan þou shalt pray of god any bone,
Prey so stedfastly tyl þat þou be herde,
For cryst preyd þryes ar þat he were herd.
Whyles he þus preyd yn grete dolour
Seynt myghel lyȝt a down fro heuene toure,
And hym cumforted and seyd þus:
“Alheyl, my lorde, cryst Ihesus!
Þy preyer and þy swote blody
Y haue offred to þy fadyr an hy,
Yn syȝte of alle þe courte of heuene;
For ȝow we preyd alle with o steuene,
Þat he shuld nat suffre þe dey þus;
Þy fadyr, by resun, answered vs,
‘My derwurþe sone wote þys ful weyl,
Þat mannes soule, þat lyþ yn helle,
May nat semely to blys be broȝt,
But þey with hys blode be fyrst oute boȝt.
Þarfore, ȝyf my sone wyl soules saue,
Nedes he mote for hem þe deþ haue.’”
Þan cryst answered, with mylde state:
“Soules saluatyun y wyl algate,
Þarfore to dey raþer y chese,
Þan we þe soules yn helle shulde lese,
Þe whych my fadyr formed to hys lykenes:
Hys wyl be ydo, y wyll no lesse.”
Þan seyd þe aungel to hym an hy:
“Cumforte þe weyl and do manly;
Hyt ys semely to hym þat ys hyghest,
Grete þynges to do, and suffre mest;
Þy pyne shal sone be ouerpaste,
And ioye shal sewe euer for to last;
Þy fadyr seyþ euer with þe he ys,
Þy modyr he kepeþ and þy dyscyplys.”
Cryst bade þe aungel, “go, grete þou me
To my fadyr dere an hy yn hys cyte.”
Beholde now, how mekely þys cumforte he toke
Of hys owne creature, as seyþ þe boke,
A lytyl from aungels he ys made lesse,
Whyl he ys yn þys valey of dyrknes;
Þys wo he suffred yn hys manhede,
But god suffred naght yn hys god hede.
Þe þryd tyme he ros from hys preyour
All be sprunge with blody coloure;
Beholde hym auysyly, þan shalt þou se
With oute grete dolour þys may nat be.
To hys dyscyplys went he, and seyd,
“He cumþ ny þat haþ me betrayd.”
Anone come Iudas, with hys cumpanye,
Cryst went aȝens hym ful myldely:
“Heyl, mayster!” he seyd, and to hym sterte,
He kessed hys mouþe with tresun yn herte.
Þo fyl vpp on hym alle þe touþer route,
For erst of knowlechyng þey were yn doute.
Þe cursed houndes runne hym aboute,
And drowe hym furþe, now yn, now oute;
Sum bynte hym, sum blyndyþ hym, & sum on hym spyt,
Sum boffeteþ hym, and sum seyþ, “telle who þe smyt;”
Sum scorneþ hym, and sum syngeþ of hym a song,
Some axen questyons, to do hym wrong;
But to hem no þyng answere he wulde.
Werse þo þan a fole of hem he ys holde,
Some seyd, “where ys now all þy wysdom?
Þou held þe wyser þan any ouþer man;
Of oure patryarkes & prestes þou haddest despyte,
Þarefor þou shalt haue of vs þe deþ astyte;
Thou seyst þat þou art goddes sone,
Helpe þy self ȝyf þou kone.”
Sum seke aȝens hym fals wytnes,
Sum seyn on hym vnsekernes,
Some tugge, sum drawe fro ce to ce,
A! lorde Ihesu, how may þys be?
Þyrwhylys he suffred þys sorow & wo,
Hys dyscyplys runne awey hym fro.
To maudelens hous Ion went ful ryȝt,
Þere as þe soper was made þeke nyȝt;
Oure lady he tolde and here felawshepe
Of here dere sonys shenshepe.
Þenk, man, of þe dyscyplys doyng!
Þey wepe, þey weyle, here handys þey wryng,
Here mayster ys take, þat shulde hem kepe;
Þey renne aboute as herdles shepe.
Oure lady wente here seluyn alone,
To þe fadyr of heuene she made þys mone:—
“My wurschypfullest fadyr, and moste meke,
Moste mercyable, and most helpyng eke,
My swete sone y ȝow betake!
Derwurþe fadyr, kepeþ hym fro wrake,
Beþ nat cruel to my dere chylde,
For to alle men ȝe are ful mylde.
Fadyr, shal my chylde be dede, Ihesus,
What haþ he mysdo to dey þus?
But, fadyr, ȝyf ȝe wyl mankynde
Be boȝt to blys withoutyn ende,
Y prey outher wyse doþ bye hem now,
For al þyng ys posyble to ȝow.
Lateþ nat, fadyr, my sone dede be;
Y pray ȝow ȝeldeþ hym aȝen to me;
He ys so buxum to do ȝoure wyl,
Þat he nat chargeþ hym self to spyl.
Helpeþ my sone fro cursed houndes;
Dere fadyr, bryngeþ hym out from here hondes.”
Þenke, man, now & rewe on here syghyng,
For þys preyd she with watyr wepyng.

The medytacyun of þe oure of pryme.

On a colde mornyng, at pryme of daye,
The prestes and prynces gun hem araye;
Both bollers of wyne and eche agadlyng
Come oute for to se of Ihesus endyng.
Þey shokyn hym oute þan of hys cloþyng,
And bonden hys handys fast hym behynd,
As a þefe among hem led furþe he was,
Now to pylat, now to eroud, now to kayphas.
Þey cryde, “þou þefe, come to þy dome!”
And he, as a meke lambe, aftyr hem come.
Hys modyr, Ion, and ouþer kyn,
Wente by a bypaþ to mete with hym.
When þey hym saye so shamely ylad,
No tunge may telle what sorowe þey had.
Þenke, whan hys modyr fyrst hym byhelde,
Aswo she fyl down yn þe felde:
Þan cryst was turmented yn moste kare,
Whan he say hys modyr so pytusly fare.
Beholde to pylat he ys furþe drawe,
Falsly acused aȝens here lawe:
Pylat sent hym to eroude þe kyng,
And eroude þe kyng was glad of hys comyng;
A myracle he coueyted of hym for to se,
But noþer myracle ne wurde hym shewe wulde he.
Þan as a fole eroude hym hadde,
And with a whyte cloþe y skorne hym he clad,
And sente hym aȝen to syre pylate:
And þo was made frenshepe þar arst was debate.
Nat onely a mysdoer now he ys holde,
But as a lewed fole he ys eke tolde:
Þey cryed on hym, as foules on owle,
With wete and eke dung þey hym defoule.
Hys modyr þat tyme folwed hym longe,
And wundred þat he wulde suffre swyche wrong.
Þey broȝt hym to pylate, he stode ful feynt;
Boldely þe howndes pursewed here pleynt.
Pylate þoȝt to delyuer hym,
For no cause of deþ he fonde yn hym:
“Y wyl vndyr neme hym, he seyd þo,
Do scurge hym weyl, and so late hym go.”
To a pylour fast þan þey hym bownde,
Þey bette hym, & rent hym, wounde be wounde.
Beholde now, man, a ruly syȝt!
Þy cumly kyng stant bounde vpryȝt,
Alle forwounded for þe yn mode;
Beholde how he wadeþ yn hys owne blode!
Ȝyt þey bete hym and leyn on sore,
Tyl þey be wery and mow no more.
Þe pyler þat þey hym to bow[n]den
Ȝyt sheweþ þe blode of hys woundyn.
A, lorde Ihesu! how may þys be?
Ho was so hardy þat spoyled þe?
Ho more hardy þat þe bounden?
Ho moste hardy þat þe wounden?
Almyȝty god! where art þou now?
Þese houndes seme myȝtyer þan þou!
But trewly, þou sone of ryȝtwysnes,
Withdrawest þy bemes ouer oure derkenes.
Whan þey hadde bete hym þus pytusly,
Þey broȝt hym to pylate, & cryed an hy,
“Syre, þys fole kalleþ hym self a kyng!
Cloþe we hym þarfore yn kynges cloþyng.”
Þenk þys was y do at þe oure of pryme:
Þe dowyng of þred now wyl y ryme.

The medytacyun of þe þredde oure.

Wyþ purpyl þey cloþed hym alle yn skorne,
And syþen krounde hym with a croune of þorne;
Yn hys hand a rede dyd þey take,
And manyone on hys hede þey brake;
Þey sette hym opunly yn here seyng,
And knelyd, and seyd, “heyl, syre kyng!”
A Ihesu! þy pacyens may nat be tolde.
Þou angry man, þy sauyour here beholde;
For þe he suffred þys pyne, þys shame,
And for a lytyl wurde þou wylt men grame.
Eftsones to pylate þey come cryyng,
And seyd, “syre, saue Cesar, we haue no kyng;
Who hym self a kyng wyl make
By lawe þe deþ he most take.”
Tho seyd pylat, “what wyl ȝe with hym?”
Þey cryed, “crucyfye, crucyfye hym!”
Pylat þan dredde for þe peples voys,
And dampnede hys lorde to dye on þe croys.
Ha, fals Iustyce! where fynst þou þat resun,
So for to dampne an ynnocent man?
Whan he was dampned on cros for to hong,
Þe houndes wulde not tary hym long,
But anone from pylat þey led hym oute,
And ioed þat here malys was broȝt aboute.
A cros was fet furþ, boþe long and grete,
Þe lengþe þerof was fyftene fete.
Vp on hys shulder þys cros þey kast,
Þat hys bak bent and wel ny to braste;
Þey punged hym furþe þurgh euery slogh,
As an hors ys prykked þat goþ yn plogh.
Beholde now, man, with wepyng herte,
And late nat þy þoȝt lyȝtly a sterte.
Cryst goþ krokedly þys heuy cros vndyr,
And feyntly hyt bereþ, hyt ys no wundyr.
Þey hye hym, and ho goþ withoutyn any stryfe,
And bereþ hys owne deþ, and bereþ þy lyfe.
Ȝyt hym ys shape more shame and shenshepe;
Þeuys be broȝt to hym yn hys felawshepe!
Ȝyt more, for cryste bereþ hys owne, Iuwyse,
Y fynde nat þat þe þeues ded þe same wyse.
A, Ihesu! what shame þey do to ȝow here,
To make ȝow so vyleynsly þese þeues fere.
But nedys þe prophecye mot be fulfylled,
Þat seyd, with wykked men he ys spylled.
Mary hys modyr folewed a ver,
She myȝt for pres come hym no ner;
A shorter wey for to chese þan bygan she,
To mete with here swete sone withoute the cyte;
And þo she say hym þat grete tre bere,
Half dede she wax and swouned ryȝt þare;
Ful feyne she wulde hys peynes alyþed;
She myȝt nat, so þese houndes hym hyed.
None of hem myȝt speke ouþer to,
For sorowe þat eche had of ouþer þo.
Furþe þey dryuen hym with hys berdoun,
Tyl he for feyntnesse fyl ny adoun.
For ouer long tyme þat cros he bare,
Þe place weyl shewyþ, who so haþ be þare.
Thos howndes were lothe hys deþ for to tarye,
Þey dredyn þat pylat hys dome wulde varye,
For euer hyt semed by hys wylle,
Þat he was loþ Ihesu to spylle.
A man þey mette, and hym areyned,
To bere þe cros þey hym constreyned;
So furþe as a þefe, Ihesu þey nam,
Tyl þey to þe mounte of caluarye cam.

The medytacyun of syxte oure of none.

Thenk now, man, how hyt ys down
Yn þe oure of syxte of none.
Beholde þe peynes of þy sauyour,
And crucyfye þyn herte with grete dolour.
Whan he to caluarye mounte was broȝt,
Beholde what werkmen þere wykkedly wroȝt:
Some dyggen, sum deluyn, sum erþe oute kast,
Some pycchen þe cros yn þe erþe fast;
On euery syde sum laddres vpp sette,
Sum renne aftyr hamers, some nayles fette;
Some dyspoyle hym oute dyspetusly,
Hys cloþys cleuyn on hys swete body;
Þey rente hem of as þey were wode:
Hys body aȝen ran alle on blode.
A! with what sorow hys modyr was fedde,
Whan she say hym so naked and alle bled!
Fyrþer more, þan gan she to seche,
And say þat þey had left hym no breche.
She ran þan þurgh hem, and hastyly hyde,
And with here kercheues hys hepys she wryde.
She wulde do more, but she ne myȝt,
For fersly here swete sone ys from her plyȝt.
To þe cros fote þey drowe hym hyyng.
Se now þe maner of crucyfyyng.
Twey laddres ben sette þe cros behynde,
Twey enmyes on hem smartly gun glymbe,
With hamers and nayles sharply whet:
A shorte ladder before was fet.
Þere as þe fete shorte weren,
Beholde þys syȝte with ruly teren,
Cryst Ihesu hys body vpp stey,
By þat short ladder, þat cros an hy;
Withoute ȝenseyyng he gan vp wende,
And whan he com to þe laddres ende,
Toward þe cros hys bak he layde,
And hys real armes oute he dysplayde;
Hys fayre handys oute he streyȝte,
And to þe crucyfyers oute he reyȝte;
And to hys fadyr he kast hys yen,
And seyd, “here am y, fadyr myn:
Vnto þys cros þou mekest me,
Me for mankynde y offre to þe;
My breþren and sustryn þou hast made hem;
For my loue, fadyr, beþ mercyable to hem;
Alle olde synnes þou hem forȝyue,
And graunte hem blys with vs for to lyue:
Derwurþe fadyr, saue alle mankynne,
Lo here y am offred for here synne.”
Whyle he þus preyd yn hys herte,
The too Iew a nayle yn hys hand gerte,
Þe touþer þey drowe tyl þe veynes braste,
And nayled þe touþer hand þer fyne faste.
Anone þey com down with alle here gere,
And alle þe laddres þan remouede were.
Beholde, man, now a grete angwys!
For by þe armes hys body alle hangys.
To hys fete anone þan þey straked,
Þey haled hem harde, tyl þe cros kraked;
Alle þe ioyntes þan brasten atwynne.
A, Ihesu! why suffrest þou þus for oure synne!
Hys fete þey nayled as tree to lede;
Þan myȝt nat he moue more but hys hede.
Beholde þese nayles beren alle hys lemes,
Loke, alle aboute hym renne blody stremes.
He suffred sorowes byttyr and fele,
Mo þan any tunge may rede or telle.
Betwene þeues tweyn þey hange hym yn samen,
A, what wrong, what peyne, & also what shamen!
Some dyspyseþ hys lore, and seyþ,
“Fy! þat goddes temple dystroyþ!”
Sum seyþ, “saue þy selfe, ȝyf þou kunne;
Com adowne, ȝyf þou be goddes sone.”
Also þe Iewes, þat crucyfyed hym,
Þe cloþes of hym þey parted atwynne.
Sum seyd, “ouþer coude he weyl saue,
But now hym owne self may he nat saue.”
Þus whyl hys modyr þe cros stant nye,
Ruly on here sone she kast here ye.
A! here sorow, here angwys, here pyne,
Y may sum þenk, but nat alle seyn;
Truly yn herte she ys crucyfyed,
Ful feyn for sorow she wulde ha deyd.
Here sones peyne was eke moche þe more,
Þat he here peynes say be so sore;
And to hys fadyr stylly he pleynes:
“Fadyr! seest þou nat my modyr peynes?
On þys cros she ys with me,
Y shulde be crucyfyed, and nat she;
My crucyfyyng suffyseþ for alle mankynne,
For now y bere alle here synne;
Yn to þy kepyng y here betake,
Derwurþe fadyr, here peynes þou slake.”
Also she preyde, with byttyr wepyng,
And seyd, “my fadyr, euer lastyng,
Shal my dere sone deye algate?
Hym now for to saue me þenkeþ to late.
Se, fadyr, what angwys now yn hym ys,
Y prey þe sumdele hys peyne þou lys.”
By here stant Iohne, and maryes þre,
Iacobe, maudeleyn, and cleophe.
Wundyr ys to telle what sorowe þey make,
For here swete mayster ys from hem take.

The medytacyun of the wurdys þat cryst spak hangyng vpp on þe cros.

Thenk how cryst, hongyng on þe cros,
Seuene [wur]dys [seide] with ful ruly voys.
Þe fyrst wurde þat he þere hongyng seyd,
For hys crucyfyers mekely he preyd,
“Fadyr, forȝyue hem here synnes sone,
For þey wyte nat wel what þey done.”
Grete loue, grete pacyens, þys wurde shewyþ þe,
Þat þou shust pray for hem þat þy foos be.
Þe secunde wurde to hys modyr was mone:
“Womman,” he seyd, “beholde þy sone.”
To hys dyscyple he seyd a nouþer,
And seyd, “beholde þy modyr, broþer.”
He wulde nat marye hys modyr clepe,
Lest for grete loue here herte wulde breke.
Þe þred to þe þefe,—“forsoþe y seye þe,
To day yn blys þou shalt be with me.”—
Þe fourþe he cryed wyþ voys an hy,
“Eli, Eli, lamaȝabatany!”
Þat ys, my god, my god, wharto
Hast þou forsake me yn my wo!
As who seyþ, þou me forsakest,
And for þys wurlde to day me betakest.
Þe fyþe wurde he seyd, “y þryste:”
Þan þe houndes wroȝtyn werste.
Þey þoȝte to noye hym moste of alle,
And ȝaue hym to drynke aysel and galle.
He tastede sumdele hys þryst for to lyne:
A! A! how strong was þat pyne.
Þogh yt he expoūn̄ed yn a sermoun,
Þat he þrysted soulys saluacyun,
Ȝyt truly þe manhede þrysted on þe rode,
For he was ful drye for faute of blode.
The syxte wurde anone he spellede,
And seyd, “alle þyng ys now fulfylled.”
As who seyþ, fadyr, fulfylled y haue
Alle þyn hestys, þy soules to saue:
Y haue be skurged, scorned, dyffyed,
Wounded, angred, and crucyfyed;
Fulfylled y haue þat wrytyn ys of me,
Þarfore, dere fadyr, take me to þe.
Ȝyf þou wylt more, y wyl hyt fulfylle,
For here now y hange to do þy wylle.
Þan seyd hys fadyr, my derwurþe sone,
Com to þy blys þere euer to wone;
Alle þyng fulweyl þou hast fulfylled,
Y wyl no more þat þou be þus spylled,
For soules þou haste broȝt oute of bonde,
Come sone and sytte on my ryȝt honde.
Anone he traueyled as men done þat dyen,
Now shyttyng, now kastyng vpward, hys yen,
Þrowyng hys hede, now here, now þore,
For bodely strengþe haþ he no more;
Þe seuenþe wurde ful loude þan he spake:
“Fadyr, yn þyn handys my spyryt y betake.”
He ȝelde vp hys goste, hys fadyr þankyng,
Toward hys brest hys hede hangyng.
Þan to þat crye Centuryo turned sone,
And seyde, “forsoþe þys was goddys sone.”
For wyþ þat grete crye þe goste gan furþe go:
Ouþer men whan þey deye do nat so.
Þat crye was so grete, as y þe telle,
Þat hyt was weyl herde downe yn to helle.
Þenk now, man, what ioye þere ys
Whan soules ben broȝt from pyne to blys.
A! how long þey haue þere lyne,
To abyde here sauyour yn many a pyne;
Þey cleped, and cryed, “com goddes sone,
How long shul we yn þys wo wone?”
Here endeþ now crystys passyun,
Fulfylled yn þe oure of syxte and none.

The medytacyun of þe sorowe þat oure Lady had for þe wunde yn here sone syde.

Now gyn we a medytacyun
Of a swete lamentacyun,
Þat mary, modyr meke and mylde,
Made for here derwurþe chylde.
Grete peynes she suffred here byfore,
But now she suffreþ moche more;
For whan she say hym drawe to ende,
Y leue she wax oute of here mynde;
She swouned, she pyned, she wax half dede,
She fylle to þe grounde, and bette here hede.
Þo Ion ran to here, and here vpbreyde.
Whan she myȝt speke, þese wurdes she seyd:
“A, my sone! my socour! now wo ys me:
Ho shal graunte me to deye wyþ þe?
Þou wrecched deþ, to me þou come,
And do þe modyr dye with þe sone;
Aboue alle þyng y desyre þe:
Com deþ, and to my sone þou brynge me.
My fadyr, my former, my mayster, my make,
Why, swete sone, hast þou me forsake?
Þenk how we loued and leued to gedyr,
And late vs now, dere sone, deye togedyr.
Y may nat lyue here withoute þe,
For alle my fode was þe to se.
A sone! where ys now alle my ioyyng,
Þat y hadde yn þy furþe beryng?
Y wys þat ioye ys turned to wo:
Symeon seyd soþ hyt shulde be so.
He seyd a swerd my soule shulde perce;
Sertes, swete sone, þys y reherce.”
Þan gan here felawshepe here sorowys to aslake,
And softly and myldely aȝen she þo spake:
“Now ȝe gode wymmen, seeþ, with ȝoure yen,
Ȝyf þyr be any sorowe lyke vnto myn:
My sone ys slawe here afore myn ye,
Þe whyche y bare wenles of my body.
Þere was neuer womman bare swyche a chylde,
So gode, so gracyus, so meke and so mylde;
Y feled no sorow yn hys beryng,
Nedys þan mote yn hys deyyng.
Myn owne gete ys fro me take,
What wundyr ys þan þoȝ y wo make?”
Whyles she sate yn here lamentacyun,
A cumpany armed she say fast come;
Þe whych ware sent yn a grete reke,
Þe dampned mennes legges to breke;
To sley hem and kast here bodyes away,
Þat none shulde se hem hange yn þe halyday.
A, mary, modyr, þy wo wexyþ newe!
Se, man, here martyrdom, and þeron rewe.
For so oft she was martyred to day,
As ofte as here sone turmented she say.
She seyd, “my sone, what wul þey more do,
Haue þey nat crucyfyed and slayn þe þerto?
Y wende þey had be all ful of þe.
Now derwurþe sone, haue reuþe on me.
Sone, y may helpe þe yn no degre,
But ȝyt wyl y do þat ys yn me.”
To þe cros foote hastly she ran,
And clypped þe cros faste yn here arme,
And seyd, “my sone here wyl y dey,
Ar þou from me be bore aweye.”
Faste þese houndes come rennyng ryue,
And founde þe Iewes boþe alyue;
Þey brak here þyes boþe atwynne,
And founde a grete dyche and kast hem þer ynne.
Se wende þey wulde so serue here sone,
And þoȝt with mekenes hem ouercome;
On knees she knelyd with here felawshepe,
And seyd, “seres, y prey ȝow of frenshepe,
Pyneþ hym no more, brekeþ nat hys þees;
Ȝyueþ hym me hole, for ded ȝe seeþ he ys;
Y wyl hym byrye my self and ouþer,
Haueþ reuþe on me, hys sory modyr.”
Ey, lady! what do ȝe to knele wepyng
Þus at þese houndes fete, socour sekyng?
Of salamons sawys ȝe are nat auysed,
Þat meknes of proude men ys alle dyspysed.
Þan longeus þe knyȝt dyspysed here pleynt,
Þat þo proude was, but now, be mercy, a seynt.
A spere he sette to crystys syde,
He launced and opun[de] a wounde ful wyde.
Þurgh hys herte he prened hym with mode,
And anone ran downe watyr and blode.
AA, wrong! aa, wo! aa, wykkednes!
To martyre here for here mekenes.
Þe sone was dede he felte no smerte,
But certes hyt perced þe modrys hert.
Þey wounded here, and heped harm vp on harmes;
She fyl, as for dede, yn maudeleyns armys.
A! Ihesu, þys dede ys wundyr to me,
Þat þou suffrest þy modyr be martyred for þe.
Þo Ion stert vp fresshly a none,
And seyd, “wykked men, what wul ȝe done?
Haue ȝe nat slayn hym with wrong and wo?
What wyl ȝe sle hys modyr also?
Goþ hens, for we wyl byrye hym anone.”
Al ashamed þe houndes awey gun gone.
Whan mary was waked oute of here swoun,
Aȝens þe cros she sate here adowne;
Pytusly she behelde þat grysly wounde;
Fro wepyng she ne myȝt stynte no stounde.
What sorowe made Ione, crystys derlyng,
What maudeleyn, with teres hys fete wasshyng,
What Iacobe, what cleophe, and ouþer mo,
Y wys no tunge may telle here wo.
Ful feyn þey wulde Ihesu down taken,
But strengþe and ynstrumentys boþe þey lakkyn.
Among hem þey kast þe best to done,
Sum seyd þe nyȝt wulde nyghe ful sone:
Ȝyf we here wake, deþ shul we þole,
Ȝyf we go hens, þys body shal be stole.
Þey preyde to god sum socur hem sende,
For lyfe ne for deþ þey nolde þens wende.
A newe cumpanye þey say þo comyngge,
Instrumentys and oynementys with hem bryngyngge.
Oure lady dred sore þat þey were enmyes,
Tyl Ihone on hem hadde sette gode aspyes;
“Beþe of gode cumforte,” he seyde, “þey seme
Ioseph of barmathy and nychodeme.”
Þys was here comyng; whan þey come þedyr
Þey wurscheped þe cros and salude to gedyr,
And þanked god þat þedyr hem sente:
Oure lady preyd hem to do here entent.

The medytacyun of þe oure of euensong.

Now wyl y telle of euensong oure.
Se, man, a syȝte of grete doloure:
Twey laddres afore þe cros now stonde,
Ioseph and nychodeme to clymbe þey fonde,
With pynsours, pryuyly, and ouþer gere.
Whan þey to þe hondes come were,
Pryuyly with here pynsours sore þey plyȝt,
Lest marye shulde gryse sore of þat syȝte.
Þey haled harde ar hyt wulde be,
Þe nayles stokyn so fast yn þe tre;
Ful faste þey wrastyn, no þyng þey wounden,
Nedes þey mote brese foule hys honden;
But ryȝtwus god accepteþ alle þyng
Of eche man, mekely aftyr hys menyng.
Whan þey hadde drawe oute þe nayles with fors,
Ioseph bare vp þe precyous cors,
Whyl hys felawe to þe fete wente,
And myȝtily þat nayle oute he hente.
Whan þe nayles were oute echone,
Nychodeme pryuyly toke hem to Ione.
Anone runne to alle þat were þere,
And hylpe þat precyus body to bere.
Ion bare hys breste and wepte ful sore,
For þeron he rested þe nyȝt before;
Hys fete bare maudeleyn and on hem weep,
For at hem here synnes she lette;
Þo þat were þere bare alle þe touþer,
Saue hys ryȝt honde bare marye hys modyr.
Feyn wulde she ha bore more of here dere sone,
But grete sorowe here strengþe had ouercome.
Þat arme wepyng ofte she kyste,
She kolled hyt, she clypped hyt vp on here brest.
But euer whan she behelde þat grysly wounde,
For sorowe & for feyntnes she fyl to þe grounde.
Oftyn she seyd, “a, sone! a, sone!
Where ys now alle þat werk become,
Þat þou were wunt to werche with þys honde,
Feuers and syke men to brynge oute of bonde?
A, flesshe! a, fode! moste feyre and most fre,
Of þe holy goste conceyued yn me,
Why fadest þou? no fylþe yn þe ys founde,
For synneles y bare þe yn to þys mounde.
A! mannes synne dere hast þou boȝt,
With a gretter prys myȝt hyt neuer be boȝt.”
Þys cumpany furþe þan þys cors gun karye,
And prayd hys modyr no lenger hem tarye.
Wyþ oynementys and shetes þey wuldyn hyt dyȝt,
And bery hyt anone for hyt was ny nyȝt.
Þan seyd she, “y pray ȝow a bone:
Takeþ nat my sone fro me so sone,
Beryeþ me raþer with hym yn graue,
For, oþer dede or alyue, y mote hym haue.”
At þe laste she consented, so long þey pray;
Þan to byrye þys body þey hem aray.
Þys body was leyde vpp on a shete,
To anoynte and sewe hyt downe þey sete;
Marye hys modyr at þe hede sate;
She lyfte hyt, she leyd hyt feyre yn here lape,
She behylde hyt, how hyt was ybroke,
Prykket, and broysed wyþ many a stroke;
Shaue also boþe berde and hede,
With þornes þey rente, with blode alle rede.
Yn a story truly þys resun y nam,
Þat god ones seyd to an holy womman,
Whan Iewes had dampned hym deþ for to haue,
Shamely berde and hede gun þey shaue.
The euangelystys telle nat of þys doyng,
For þey myȝte nat wryte alle þyng.
Of hys berde y fynde a resun,
Þe whyche seyd Isaye yn goddys persone:
“My body y ȝaue to men smytyng,
And also my chekes to men grubbyng.”
Fyrst, þan, marye, with a swote cloute,
Swaþed here sones hede alle aboute;
“Sone, y was wunt þe swetly to wrappe,
Now swaþe y þe dede, here yn my lappe.”
The touþer anoynted hym and closed þe shete,
Tyl þey com adowne ny to hys fete;
Maudeleyn prayd, þat hys fete she myȝt dresse,
For þer she gate of here synnes grace & forȝyuenes:
She wepte, and wysshe hem with many a tere,
She keste hem, and wyped hem with here feyre here.
Whan þe cors alle was y dyȝt,
To þe sepulcre þey bygan to bere hyt ful ryȝt.

The medytacyun of þe oure of cumplyn.

Now ys þe oure y come of cumplyn:
Þey leyn þe cors þer hyt shal lyn,
Yn a new sepulcre and feyre y graue,
Þat nycodeme made hym self for to haue:
Þey shette hyt a boute with a grete stone,
And arayde hem faste þen for to gone.
“Abydeþ god breþren, marye gan seye,
Wharto hye ȝe so faste aweye?
Ȝyf ȝe be ful of my dere sone,
Goþ hens, and lateþ me here alone wone;
Whedyr shulde y wende, to frende, ouþer kyn?
Y kan no whedyr go, but ȝyf y had hym;
He was my broþer, my mayster, my spouse;
Now am y wedew, helples yn house.
Wuld god ȝe wulde byrye me with hym!
For þan shulde we neuer departe atwyn.
Now certes my soule ys melted awey:
For ryȝt so loue gan to me seye,
‘Y haue hym soȝt, y fynde hym noȝt,
Y haue hym clepyd, he answereþ noȝt.
Y wyl a byde hym here yn fay,
For he seyde he wulde a ryse þe þryd day.’
But ȝyf þat y hadde trust to hys seyyng,
Myn herte shulde ha broste at hys deyyng.”
Þan Ion cunseyled here, and seyd anone,
“Thys sabbat we mow nat wake a lone:
Ȝyf Iewes here vs take þey wyl vs spylle,
And þus was also ȝoure sones wylle.”
Þan mary answered, myldely wepyng,
“My sone, Ion, toke me yn þy kepyng,
Y most nedys do as þou me byst:”
And ryȝt with þat wurde aswyþe she ryst;
Afore þe sepulcre she kneled a downe,
And wepyng, she made þys lamentacyoun:
“A, swete sone! now wo ys me,
Þat y no lenger may byde with þe,
For nedys y mote now þe forsake,
Þy fadyr of heuene y þe betake;
Oure felawshepe ys now dyuydyd,
For y may nat with þe be byryed;
But certes, swete sone, where so euer y be,
Holy myn herte ys byryed with þe;
Ȝyf þou ryse vp, as þou me behyȝte,
Myn herte shal aryse with þe as lyȝt;
Ȝyf þou ryse nat vp on þe þrydde day,
Truly y am stonede dede for ay.
Þarfore, swete sone, aryse vp and come,
And kyþe weyl þat þou art of heuene goddys sone.”
Þe sepulcre swetly anone she kyst,
Se wente a boute and feyre she hyt blest,
And seyd, “my dere sone, slepe softe yn ese,
For þy place ys made to þe yn pese.”
Eftesones þe sepulcre she kyst knelyng,
And cryde þys wurde with strong wepyng,
“A! sone, here may y no lenger lende,
Nedes from þe þou wylt me sende,
Myn herte with þe y leue to wone,
Farwel, farewel, my derewurþe sone!”
With þat wurde certes ny swoned she had,
But Ion lefte here vp, and þens here led.
Towarde þe cyte here wey þey toke,
Oftyn aȝenward marye gan loke.
Whan she come to þe cros, “abydeþ,” she seyd;
“My sone, my sauyour, ryȝt now here deyd;
Here vpp on he haþ boȝt alle man kynne,
Hys precyus blode haþ wasshe oure synne.”
She wurschepyd hyt fyrst, & þan þey echone
Towarde þe cyte here wey gun they gone.
Are she shulde entre, þey kouerd here vysage.
As for a wedew þey dyd þat vsage.
Þey kast where she herbored shulde be,
Eche of hem seyd, “with me, with me.”
Now þe quene of heuene, modyr hyest,
Haþ nat where yn here hede for to reste.
She þanked hem, and seyd, “y am betake
To Ion, and þarfore y may nat hym forsake.”
Ion seyd, “we wyl with maudeleyn a lyȝt,
For þere rested oure mayster a whyle to nyȝt;
Also my breþren wyl come alle þedyr;
Þere wyl we reste and speke to gedyr.”
Þey led here furþe þurgh þat cyte,
Wydewes and wyues of here had pyte.
Whan þey had broȝt here þere echone,
Some token here leue and wenten hom;
Maudeleyn and martha were bysy þat nyȝt,
To serue here alle þat þey myȝt.
Þenke, man, how she myȝt no slepe slepe,
But sorowed, and syghed, and weyled, and wepe,
And euermore seyde, “my derwurþe sone,
For loue y anguysshe tyl þat þou come.”
Anone come petyr, with wepyng chere,
And salude Marye and Ion yn fere.
Þan come þe dyscyplys, eche aftyr oþer,
For shame durst none loke on hys broþer.
Þey asked þe doyng of here dere lorde,
Ion tolde hem þe processe euery aworde.
“Wo me,” seyd petyr, “me shameþ to loke,
For þat y my swete lorde and mayster forsoke,
Wheche loued and chersed me so tenderly:
Wo me, a, wreche, mercy, y cry.”
Also þe dyscyplys here confessyun
Maden and weptyn with lamentacyun.
Þan crystes modyr, here mylde maystres,
Had grete compassyun of here heuynes;
She comforted hem and seyd þus:
“Dysmay ȝow nat for my sone Ihesus,
For þus to hys deþ he wulde be bore,
To saue mannes soule þat was forlore;
Þarto he com with moche stryfe,
Yn traueyle and yn pouert to leden hys lyfe.
No wundyr þogh ȝe forsoke hym yn hys ende,
Hys fadyr forsoke hym socour to sende;
Hymself he forsoke for oure mys dede;
Y preyd for hym, y myȝt no þyng spede;
Certes y am sory for hys grete passyun,
But truly y glade for soules saluacyun;
Þey shulden yn helle for euer be forlore,
But y hym to þys deþ had hym bore;
Ȝe weten weyl how benygne my dere sone was,
Lyȝtly to forȝyue al maner of trespas;
Douteþ ȝe no þyng of hys grete mercy,
For largely he ȝyfþ þat cryeþ hyt hertly;
Beeþ of gode cumfort, for trustly y say,
We shullen hym se on þe þrydde day;
Seþþen he haþ boght vs at so grete prys,
Nedes from þe deþ he mote aryse.”
“Certys,” seyd petyr, “þys nyȝt at þe cene,
He seyd eftsones we shuldyn hym sene,
Þan alle oure sorowe to ioye shulde come,
And þat ioye shulde nat from vs be nome.”
“A! breþren!” seyd Marye, “y ȝow pray
Þat swete sermoun ȝe wyl me say.”
A none Ion tolde here, for he coude best,
For slepyng he soke hyt at crystys brest.
Þus þey dwel yn here medytacyun,
Tyl tyme was come of þe resurreccyun.

The medytacyun how cryst ȝede to helle.

Thenk, man, and se cryst aftyr hys deþ:
For þy synne streyght to helle he geþ,
Oute of þe fendys bonde to þe fre,
And þe fende bonde to make to þe.
Þenk, also, þe grete dede of hys powere:
He myȝt ha sent an angel to saue vs here,
But þan of oure saluacyun we shulde nat þanke hym,
But calle þe aungel sauer of alle man kyn.
Þarfor hys fadyr so hertly loued vs,
He ȝaue vs hys owene gete sone Ihesus;
Þan we onely hym þanke and do hym onoure,
As fadyr, as former, socoure and sauyoure.
Þank we now oure sayoure, þat salue vs haþ broȝt,
Oure syke soules to saue, whan synne haþ hem soȝt.
Of hys grete godenes gyn we hym grete,
Seyyng þe wurde of sakarye þe holy prophete:
“Lorde god of Israel, blessed mote þou be,
Þy peple þou hast vysyted and boȝt hem to þe,
Whych setyn yn derkenes of deþ and dysese,
Þou lyȝtest hem and ledest yn to þe wey of pese.”
To þat pes pereles we prey þou vs bryng,
Þat leuyst and reynest with oute endyng.