Classic Poem

Sodenly afraid, half waking, half sleeping,
And gretly dismayd: a woman sat weeping,

With favour in her face fer passing my reason,
And of her sore weeping this was the encheason:
Her Son in her lap lay, she said, slain by treason.
If weeping might ripe be, it seemed then in season.
" Jesu!", so she sobbed —
So her Son was bobbed,
And of His lif robbed —
Saying these wordes, as I say thee:
" Who cannot weepe, come lern at me."

I said I coud not weepe, I was so hard-herted.
She answerd me shortly with wordes that smerted:
" Lo, nature shall move thee; thou must be converted;
Thine own Fader this night is dead" — lo, thus she thwerted —
" So my Son is bobbed,
And of His lif robbed."
Forsooth then I sobbed,
Verifying the wordes she said to me:
" Who cannot weepe may lern at me".

" Now breke, hert, I thee pray! this cors lith so rewly,
So beten, so wounded, entreted so Jewly.
What wight may me behold and weepe not? None trewly,
To see my dead dere Son ly bleeding, lo, this newly."
Ever stil she sobbed —
So her Son was bobbed,
And of His lif robbed —
Newing the wordes, as I say thee:
" Who cannot weepe, com lern at me."

On me she cast her ey, said " See, man, thy Brother!"
She kissed Him and said " Swete, am I not thy mother?"
In sowning she fill there — it wolde be none other;
I n'ot which more deadly, the toon or the tother.
Yet she revived and sobbed —
So her Son was bobbed,
And of His lif robbed —
" Who cannot weepe", this was the lay,
And with that word she vanisht away.