_Martha._ Sustyr Magdalen, come out of halle, Our maystyr is com, as I ȝow say; He sent me hedyr ȝow for to calle, Come forthe in hast, as I ȝow pray. _Magdalen._ Ha! where hath he ben many a longe day? Alas! why cam he no sonere hedyr? In hast I folwe ȝow anon the way, Me thynkyth longe or I come thedyr. _Tertius consolator._ Herke, gode ffrendys, I ȝow pray, Aftyr this woman in hast we wende; I am aferde ryght in good fay, Hereself for sorwe that she wyl shende. _Nuncius._ Here brothyr so sore is in hire mende, She may not ete, drynke, nor slepe; Streyte to his grave she goth on ende, As a mad woman, ther for to wepe. _Magdalen._ A! sovereyn Lord, and mayster dere! Had ȝe with us ben in presens, Than had my brother on lyve ben here, Nat ded but qwyk, that now is hens. Ageyn deth is no resystens, Alas! myn hert is woundyrly wo, Whan that I thynke of his absens, That ȝe ȝourself in herte lovyd so. _Primus consolator._ Whan we have mynd of his sore dethe, He was to us so gentyl and good, That mend of hym oure hertes sleth, The losse of hym doth marre oure mood. _Secundus consolator._ Be bettyr neybore nevyr man stood, To every man he was ryght hende; Us he dede refresche with drynk and food, Now he is gon, gon is oure frende! _Jhesus._ ȝowre grett wepynge doth me constreyne ffor my good ffrend to wepe also; I cannot me for wo restreyn, But I must wepe lyke as ȝe do. _Hic Jhesus fingit se lacrimari._ _Tertius consolator._ Beholde this prophete, how he doth wepe lo! He lovyd Lazarus ryght woundyrly sore, He wolde not ellys for hym thus wepe so, But if that his love on hym were the more. _Nuncius._ A straw for thi tale, what nedyth hym to wepe? A man born blynde dyde he nat ȝeve syght? Myght he not thanne his frende on lyve kepe, Be the vertu of that same hyȝ myght? _Jhesus._ Where is he put? telle me anon ryght; Brynge me the weye streyth to his grave. _Martha._ Lord! at ȝour wylle we xal brynge ȝow tyght, Evyn to that place ther he doth lyve in cave. _Magdalyn._ Whan that we had the massangere sent, Or he had fullyche half a myle gon, Deyd my brother, and up we hym hent, Here in this grave we beryed hym anon. _Jhesus._ The myght of the Godhed xal gladd ȝow everychon, Suche syght xal he se hens or ȝe wende; Sett to ȝour handys, take of the ston, A syght lete me have of Laȝarus my ffrende. _Martha._ He stynkygh ryght fowle longe tyme or this, Iiij. days gon forsothe he was dede. Lete hym ly stylle ryght evyn as he is, The stynke of his careyn myght hurte us I drede. _Jhesus._ As I have the tolde, syght of the Godhede Thyself xuldyst have, feythful if thou be; Take of the ston, do aftyr my rede, The glorye of the Godhede anon ȝe xal se.