79rb] 5 10 79va] 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 79vb]    60 65

¶ “Stond wel, Moder, under rode,    Byholt thy sone with glade mode;    Blythe moder myht thou be.” “Sone, hou shulde Y blithe stonde?    Y se thin fet, Y se thin honde    Nayled to the harde tre.” “Moder, do wey thy wepinge.    Y thole deth for monkynde;    For my gult thole Y non.” “Sone, Y fele the dede stounde.    The suert is at myn herte grounde    That me byhet Symeon.” “Moder, merci! Let me deye    For Adam out of helle beye    Ant his kun that is forlore.” “Sone, what shal me to rede?    My peyne pyneth me to dede;    Lat me deye the byfore.” “Moder, thou rewe al of thy bern;    Thou wosshe awai the blody tern.    Hit doth me worse then my ded.” “Sone, hou may Y teres werne?    Y se the blody stremes erne From thin herte to my fet.”    “Moder, nou Y may the seye,    Betere is that Ich one deye    Then al monkunde to helle go.” “Sone, Y se thi bodi byswongen,    Fet ant honden thourhout stongen —    No wonder thah me be wo.” “Moder, now Y shal the telle    Yef Y ne deye, thou gost to helle;    Y thole ded for thine sake.” “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, ywis, Y con the telle;    Bote hit be the pyne of helle,    More serewe 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.” “Sone, Y wil with the founden;    Y deye, ywis, 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 ageyn oure fo. Blessed be thou, ful of blysse; Let us never hevene misse    Thourh thi suete sones myht. Louerd, for that ilke blod That thou sheddest on the rod,    Thou bryng us into hevene lyht!       Amen.

¶ “Stand well, Mother, under rood,    Behold your son with gladness;    Joyful mother may you be.” “Son, how may I stand happily?    I see your feet, I see your hands    Nailed to the hard tree.” “Mother, cease your weeping.    I suffer death for mankind;    I suffer nothing for my own guilt.” “Son, I feel your death’s wound.    The sword is piercing my heart    As Simeon promised me.” “Mother, mercy! Let me die    In order to redeem Adam out of hell    And his kindred who are lost.” “Son, what am I to do?    My pain tortures me to death;    Let me die before you.” “Mother, you suffer much for your child;    Wash away your bloody tears.    It pains me worse than my death.” “Son, how may I hold back tears?    I see the bloody streams flow    From your heart to my feet.” “Mother, now I may explain to you,    It’s better that I die one day    Than for all mankind to go to hell.” “Son, I see your body tormented,    Feet and hands pierced through —    It’s no wonder I’m distraught.” “Mother, now I will tell you    That if I don’t die, you’ll go to hell;    I suffer death for your sake.” “Son, you are so gentle and kind;    Don’t reproach me — it’s my nature    That I express this grief for you.” “Mother, now you may well know    What sorrow have they who bear children,    What sorrow it is to go with child.” “Sorrow, indeed, I can tell to you;    Unless it be the pain of hell,    More sorrow I cannot imagine!” “Mother, have pity for mothers’ worry,    For now you know a mother’s plight    Though you are a clean virgin.” “Son, help all who are in need,    All of those who call to me,    Maiden, wife, and sinful woman.” “Mother, I may remain no longer:    The time has come, I will go to hell;    Upon the third day I will rise.” “Son, I wish to go with you;    I die, indeed, for your wounds.    So sorrowful a death was never!” When he arose, then her sorrow ceased;    Her bliss sprang up on the third morrow:    Joyful mother were you then! Lady, for that same bliss, Beseech your son, for joy of your son;    Be our shield against our foe. Blessed be you, full of bliss; Let us never heaven miss    Through your sweet son’s might. Lord, for that same blood That you shed on the rood,    Bring us into heaven’s light!       Amen.

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