"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. Oft when I sike _sigh._ And makie my moan, Well ill though me like, Wonder is it none.[7] When I see hang high And bitter pains dreye, _dree, endure._ Jesu, my lemmon! _love._ His woundés sore smart, The spear all to his heart And through his side is gone.