Classic Poem

I sike when I singe
For sorewe that I se,
When I with wipinge
Beholde upon the Tre,
And se Jesu, the swete,
His herte blod forlete
For the love of me;
His woundes waxen wete,
They wepen stille and mete —
Marye, reweth thee.

Heye upon a downe,
Ther all folk it se may,
A mile from uch towne,
Aboute the midday,
The Rode is up arered:
His frendes aren afered
And clingeth so the clay;
The Rode stond in stone,
Marye stond hire one,
And seith, " Weylaway!"

When I thee beholde,
With eyen brighte bo,
And thy body colde,
Thy ble waxeth blo;
Thou hengest all of blode,
So heye upon the Rode,
Betwene theves two.
Who may sike more?
Marye wepeth sore,
And siht all this wo.

The nailles beth too stronge,
The smithes are too sleye;
Thou bledest all too longe,
The Tre is all too heye;
The stones beth all wete.
Alas! Jesu, the swete,
For now frend hast thou non,
Bote Seint Johan, mourninde,
And Marye, wepinde,
For pine that thee is on.

Ofte when I sike,
And makie my mon,
Well ille thah me like,
Wonder is it non
When I se honge heye
And bittre pines dreye
Jesu, my lemmon,
His wondes sore smerte,
The spere all to his herte
And thourh his sides gon.

Ofte when I sike
With care I am thourhsoght;
When I wake, I wike,
Of sorewe is all my thoght.
Alas! Men beth wode
That swereth by the Rode,
And selleth him for noght
That boghte us out of sinne.
He bring us to winne,
That hath us dere boght!