Ondothe ȝoure ȝatys of sorwatorie! On mannys sowle I have memorie, Here comyth now the kynge of glorye, These gates for to breke! ȝe develys that am here withinne, Helle gatys ȝe xal unpynne, I xal delyvere mannys kynne, — ffrom wo I wole hem wreke! _Belyalle._ Alas! alas! out and harrow! Onto thi byddynge must we bow, That thou art God now do we know, Of the had we grett dowte. Aȝens the may no thynge stonde, Alle thynge obeyth to thyn honde, Bothe hevyn and helle, watyr and londe, — Alle thynge must to the lowte. _Anima Cristi._ Aȝens me it were but wast To holdyn or to stondyn fast; Helle logge may not last Aȝens the kynge of glorye. Thi derke dore down I throwe, My fayr ffrendys now wele I knowe, I xal hem brynge reknyd be rowe Out of here purcatorye! XXXIV. THE BURIAL OF CHRIST. _Centurio._ In trewthe now I knowe with ful opyn syght, That Goddys dere sone is naylid on tre! These wundyrful tokenys aprevyn ful ryght Quod vere filius Dei erat iste! _Alius miles (2)._ The very child of God I suppose that he be, And so it semyth wele be his wundyrful werk! The erthe sore qwakyth, and that agresyth me, With myst and grett wedyr it is woundyr dyrk! _Alius Miles (3)._ Soche merveylis shewe may non erthely man, The eyr is ryght derke, that fyrst was ryght clere; The erthe-qwave is grett, the clowdys waxe whan, These tokenys preve hym a lord without any pere! _Centurio._ His fadyr is pereles kyng of most empere, Bothe lorde of this world and kynge of hevyn hyȝe; ȝitt out of alle synne to brynge us owt of daungere, He soferyth his dere sone for us alle to dye. _Nichodemus._ Alas! alas! what syght is this? To se the lorde and kynge of blys, That nevyr synnyd ne dede amys, Thus naylid upon a rode! Alas! ȝewys, what have ȝe wrought? A! ȝe wyckyd wytys, what was ȝour thought? Why have ȝe bobbyd and thus betyn owth Alle his blyssyd blood? _Senturyo._ A! now trewly telle weyl I kan, That this was Goddys owyn sone! I knowe he is both God and man, Be this wark that here is done! Ther was nevyr man but God that cowde make this werk, That evyr was of woman born! Were he nevyr so gret a clerk, It passeth hem alle, thow thei had sworn! Hese lawe was trewe, I dare wel saye, That he tawth us here amonge! Therfore I rede ȝe turne ȝour faye, And amende that ȝe han do wronge! _Joseph of Aram._ O! good Lord Jhesu, that deyst now here on rode, Have mercy on me and forgyf me mys! I wold the worchep here with my good, That I may come to thi blysse! To Pylat now wool I goon, And aske the body of my Lord Jhesu; To bery that now wold I soon, In my grave that is so new.