Classic Poem

It wes upon a Scere Thorsday that oure Lord aros;
Full milde were the wordes he spec to Judas:

‘Judas, thou most to Jurselem oure mete for to bugge;
Thritty platen of selver thou bere upo thy rugge.

‘Thou comest fer i' the brode stret, fer i' the brode strete,
Summe of thine cunesmen ther thou meist imete.’

Imette wid his soster, the swikele wimon.
‘Judas, thou were wurthe me stende thee wid ston.

‘Judas, thou were wurthe me stende thee wid ston,
For the false prophete that tou belevest upon.’

‘Be stille, leve soster: thine herte thee tobreke.
Wiste mine Lord Christ, full well he wolde be wreke.’

‘Judas, go thou on the roc, heye upon the ston;
Ley thin heved i' my barm: slep thou thee anon.’

Sone so Judas of slepe was awake,
Thritty platen of selver from him weren itake.

He drow himselve by the top that all it lavede ablode:
The Jewes out of Jurselem awenden he were wode.

Foret him com the riche Jew that heiste Pilatus:
‘Wolte sulle thy Lord that hette Jesus?’

‘I nul sulle my Lord for nones cunnes eiste,
Bote it be for the thritty platen that he me bitaiste.’

‘Wolte sulle thy Lord Christ for enes cunnes golde?
Nay! bote it be for the platen that he habben wolde.’

In him com oure Lord gon as his postles seten at mete.
‘Wou sitte ye postles, and wy nule ye ete?

‘Wou sitte ye postles, and wy nule ye ete?
Ic am abought and isold today for oure mete.’

Up stod him Judas: ‘Lord am I that frec?
I nas never o' the stude ther me thee evel spec.’

Up him stod Peter and spec wid all his mighte:
‘Thau Pilatus him come wid ten hundred cnightes,

‘Thau Pilatus him come wid ten hundred cnightes,
Yet ic wolde, Lord, for thy love fighte.’

‘Stille thou be, Peter! Well I thee iknowe:
Thou wolt fursake me thrien ar the cok him crowe.’