"Mother, now thou mayst well leren _learn._ What sorrow have that children beren, _they have; bear._ What sorrow it is with childé gon." _to go._ "Sorrow, I wis! I can thee tell! But it be the pain of hell _except._ More sorrow wot I none."
"Mother, rue of mother-care, _take pity upon._ For now thou wost of mother-fare, _knowest._ Though thou be clean maiden mon."[4] "Soné, help at alle need Allé those that to me grede, _cry._ Maiden, wife, and full wymmon." _woman with child._
"Mother, may I no longer dwell; The time is come I shall to hell; The third day I rise upon." "Son, I will with thee founden; _set out, go._ I die, I wis, for thy wounden: So sorrowful death nes never none." _was not never none._
When he rose, then fell her sorrow; Her bliss sprung the third morrow: Blithe mother wert thou tho! _then._ Lady, for that ilké bliss, _same._ Beseech thy son of sunnés lisse: _for sin's release._ Thou be our shield against our foe. _Be thou._
Blessed be thou, full of bliss! Let us never heaven miss, Through thy sweeté Sonés might! Loverd, for that ilké blood, _Lord,_ That thou sheddest on the rood, Thou bring us into heaven's light. AMEN.
I think my readers will not be sorry to have another of a similar character.
I sigh when I sing For sorrow that I see, When I with weeping Behold upon the tree,
And see Jesus the sweet His heart's blood for-lete _yield quite._ For the love of me. His woundés waxen wete, _wet._ They weepen still and mete:[5] Mary rueth thee. _pitieth._
High upon a down, _hill._ Where all folk it see may, A mile from each town, About the mid-day, The rood is up arearéd; His friendés are afearéd, And clingeth so the clay;[6] The rood stands in stone, Mary stands her on, And saith Welaway!
When I thee behold With eyen brighté bo, _eyes bright both._ And thy body cold-- Thy ble waxeth blo, _colour: livid._ Thou hangest all of blood _bloody._ So high upon the rood Between thieves tuo-- _two._ Who may sigh more? Mary weepeth sore, And sees all this woe.
The nails be too strong, The smiths are too sly; _skilful._ Thou bleedest all too long; The tree is all too high; The stones be all wete! _wet._ Alas, Jesu, the sweet! For now friend hast thou none,
But Saint John to-mournynde, _mourning greatly._ And Mary wepynde, _weeping._ For pain that thee is on.