“Stond well, moder, under Rode.”
Behold thy sone with glade mode—
Blithe moder might thou be.’
‘Sone, how shulde I blithe stonde?
I se thine fet, I se thine honde,
Nailed to the harde Tre.’
‘Moder, do wey thy wepinge.
I thole deth for monkinde—
For my gult thole I non.’
‘Sone, I fele the dedestounde:
The swerd is at mine herte grounde,
That me bihet Simeon.’
‘Moder, thou rewe all of thy bern:
Thou woshe away the blody tern—
It doth me worse then my ded.’
‘Sone, how may I teres werne?
I se the blody stremes erne
From thine herte to my fet.’
‘Moder, now I may thee seye,
Betere is that ich one deye
Then all monkunde to helle go.’
‘Sone, I se thy body beswungen,
Fet and honden thourhout stongen—
No wonder thah me be wo.’
‘Moder, now I shall thee telle,
Yef I ne deye thou gost to helle:
I thole ded for thine sake.’
‘Sone, thou art so meke and minde,
Ne wit me naht, it is my kinde
That I for thee this sorewe make.’
‘Moder, mercy, let me deye!
For Adam out of helle beye,
And his kun that is forlore.’
‘Sone, what shall me to rede?
My peine pineth me to dede.
Lat me deye thee before.’
‘Moder, now thou might well leren
Whet sorewe haveth that children beren,
Whet sorewe it is with childe gon.’
‘Sorewe, iwis, I con thee telle!
Bote it be the pine of helle,
More sorewe wot I non.’
‘Moder, rew of moder care,
For now thou wost of moder fare,
Thou thou be clene maiden-mon.’
‘Sone, help at alle nede
Alle tho that to me grede,
Maiden, wif and fol wimmon.’
‘Moder, may I no lengore dwelle.
The time is come I shall to helle.
The thridde day I rise upon.’
‘Sone, I will with thee founden.
I deye, iwis, for thine wounden,
So soreweful ded nes never non.’
When he ros tho fell hire sorewe,
Hire blisse sprong the thridde morewe:
Blithe moder were thou tho.
Levedy, for that ilke blisse,
Besech thy sone of sunnes lisse—
Thou be oure sheld ayein oure fo.
Blessed be thou, full of blisse,
Let us never Hevene misse,
Thourh thy swete sones might.
Louerd, for that ilke blod
That thou sheddest on the Rod,
Thou bring us into Hevene light.
Behold thy sone with glade mode—
Blithe moder might thou be.’
‘Sone, how shulde I blithe stonde?
I se thine fet, I se thine honde,
Nailed to the harde Tre.’
‘Moder, do wey thy wepinge.
I thole deth for monkinde—
For my gult thole I non.’
‘Sone, I fele the dedestounde:
The swerd is at mine herte grounde,
That me bihet Simeon.’
‘Moder, thou rewe all of thy bern:
Thou woshe away the blody tern—
It doth me worse then my ded.’
‘Sone, how may I teres werne?
I se the blody stremes erne
From thine herte to my fet.’
‘Moder, now I may thee seye,
Betere is that ich one deye
Then all monkunde to helle go.’
‘Sone, I se thy body beswungen,
Fet and honden thourhout stongen—
No wonder thah me be wo.’
‘Moder, now I shall thee telle,
Yef I ne deye thou gost to helle:
I thole ded for thine sake.’
‘Sone, thou art so meke and minde,
Ne wit me naht, it is my kinde
That I for thee this sorewe make.’
‘Moder, mercy, let me deye!
For Adam out of helle beye,
And his kun that is forlore.’
‘Sone, what shall me to rede?
My peine pineth me to dede.
Lat me deye thee before.’
‘Moder, now thou might well leren
Whet sorewe haveth that children beren,
Whet sorewe it is with childe gon.’
‘Sorewe, iwis, I con thee telle!
Bote it be the pine of helle,
More sorewe wot I non.’
‘Moder, rew of moder care,
For now thou wost of moder fare,
Thou thou be clene maiden-mon.’
‘Sone, help at alle nede
Alle tho that to me grede,
Maiden, wif and fol wimmon.’
‘Moder, may I no lengore dwelle.
The time is come I shall to helle.
The thridde day I rise upon.’
‘Sone, I will with thee founden.
I deye, iwis, for thine wounden,
So soreweful ded nes never non.’
When he ros tho fell hire sorewe,
Hire blisse sprong the thridde morewe:
Blithe moder were thou tho.
Levedy, for that ilke blisse,
Besech thy sone of sunnes lisse—
Thou be oure sheld ayein oure fo.
Blessed be thou, full of blisse,
Let us never Hevene misse,
Thourh thy swete sones might.
Louerd, for that ilke blod
That thou sheddest on the Rod,
Thou bring us into Hevene light.