80ra]    5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60

¶ I syke when Y singe    For sorewe that Y se, When Y, with wypinge,    Biholde upon the tre Ant se Jesu the suete: Is herte blod forlete    For the love of me; Ys woundes waxen wete; Thei wepen, stille ant mete.    Marie, reweth the. Heye upon a doune    Ther al folk hit se may, A mile from uch toune,    Aboute the midday, The rode is up arered; His frendes aren afered    Ant clyngeth so the clay. The rode stond in stone; Marie stont hire one    Ant seith, “weylaway.” When Y the biholde    With eyyen bryhte bo, Ant thi bodi colde,    Thi ble waxeth blo, Thou hengest al of blode, So heye upon the rode    Bituene theves tuo — Who may syke more? Marie wepeth sore    Ant siht al this wo. The naylles beth to stronge;    The smythes are to sleye; Thou bledest al to longe;    The tre is al to heyye; The stones beoth al wete! Alas, Jesu the suete,    For nou frend hast thou non Both Seint Johan mournynde,      Ant Marie wepynde,    For pyne that the ys on. Ofte when Y sike    Ant makie my mon, Wel ille thah me like,    Wonder is hit non, When Y se honge heye, Ant bittre pynes dreye,    Jesu, my lemmon! His wondes sore smerte; The spere al to is herte    Ant thourh is sydes gon. Ofte when Y syke,    With care Y am thourhsoht; When Y wake, Y wyke;    Of serewe is al mi thoht. Alas, men beth wode That suereth by the rode,    Ant selleth him for noht! That bohte us out of synne, He bring us to wynne,    That hath us duere boht.

¶ I sigh when I sing    For sorrow that I see, When I, with weeping,    Look upon the tree And see Jesus the sweet: His heart’s blood shed    For the love of me; His wounds grow wet; They weep, quiet and proper.    Mary, it grieves you. High upon a hill    Where all folk may see it, A mile from any town,    About midday, The cross is raised up; His friends are afraid    And recoil like the clay. The cross stands in stone; Mary stands alone    And says, “wailaway.” When I behold you    With both keen eyes, And see your body cold,    Your face grows ashen pale, You hang all blood-strewn, So high upon the cross    Between two thieves — Who may sigh more? Mary weeps mournfully    And saw all this agony. The nails be too strong;    The smiths are too skilled; You bleed all too long;    The tree is all too high; The stones be all wet! Alas, Jesus the sweet,    For now you have no friend Except Saint John mourning, And Mary weeping,    For the pain that you are in. Often when I sigh    And utter my lament, Though I like it very ill,    Wonder is it none, When I see hung high, And bitter pains suffered,    Jesus, my lover! His wounds sorely hurt; The spear all through his heart    And through his sides gone. Often when I sigh,    With care I am pierced through; When I awake, I weaken;    Of sorrow is all my thought. Alas, men are crazed Who swear by the cross,    And sell him for nought! He who redeemed us out of sin, May he bring us to bliss,    Who has us dearly bought.

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