Classic Poem

Swete sone, reu on me,
And brest out of thy bondes;
For now me thinket that I see—
Thoru bothen thin hondes—
Nailes dreven into the tree,
So reufuliche thu honges.
Now is betre that I flee
And lete alle these londes.

Swete sone, thy faire face
Droppet all on blode,
And thy body dounward
Is bounden to the rode.
How may thy modres herte
Tholen so swete a fode,
That blissed was of alle born
And best of alle gode!

Swete sone, reu on me
And bring me out of this live,
For me thinket that I see
Thy deth, it neyhet swithe;
Thy feet ben nailed to the tree—
Now may I no more thrive,
For all this werld withouten thee
Ne shall me maken blithe.