ffor mannys love I tholyd dede, And for mannys love I am rysyn up rede, ffor man I have mad my body in brede, His sowle for to fede. Man, and thou lete meyns gone, And wylt not folwyn me anone, Suche a frende fyndyst thou nevyr none, To help the at thi nede. Salve, sancta parens! my modyr dere! Alle heyl, modyr, with glad chere! ffor now is aresyn, with body clere, Thi sone that was delve depe. This is the thrydde day that I ȝow tolde, I xuld arysyn out of the cley so colde,— Now am I here with brest ful bolde, Therfore no more ȝe wepe. _Maria._ Welcom, my Lord! welcom, my grace! Welcome, my sone, and my solace! I xal the wurchep in every place, — Welcom, Lord God of myght! Mekel sorwe in hert I leed, Whan thou were leyd in dethis beed, But now my blysse is newly breed,— Alle men may joye this syght. _Jhesus._ Alle this werlde that was forlorn, Shal wurchepe ȝou bothe evyn and morn, ffor had I not of ȝow be born, Man had be lost in helle. I was deed, and lyff I have, And thorwe my dethe man do I save, ffor now I am resyn out of my grave, In hevyn man xal now dwelle. _Maria._ A, dere sone! these wurdys ben goode, Thou hast wel comfortyd my mornyng moode Blyssyd be thi precyous bloode, That mankende thus doth save! _Jhesus._ Now, dere modyr, my leve I take; Joye in hert and myrthe ȝe make, ffor dethe is deed and lyff dothe wake, Now I am resyn fro my grave! _Maria._ ffarewel, my sone! farewel, my childe! ffarewel, my Lorde! my God so mylde! Myn hert is wele that ffyrst was whylde; ffarewel, myn owyn dere love! Now alle mankynde bethe glad with gle, ffor deth is deed, as ȝe may se, And lyff is reysed endles to be In hevyn dwellynge above! Whan my sone was nayled on tre, Alle women myght rewe with me, ffor grettere sorwe myght nevyr non be, Than I dede suffyr i-wys. But this joy now passyth alle sorwe, That my childe suffryd in that hard morwe, ffor now he is oure alderers borwe, To brynge us alle to blys. _Tunc evigilabunt milites sepulcri, et dicet primus miles_, Awake! awake! Hillis gyn quake, And tres ben shake Ful nere a too. Stonys clevyd, Wyttys ben revid, Erys ben devid, I am servid soo. _Secundus miles._ He is aresyn, this is no nay, That was deed and colde in clay, — Now is he resyn belyve this day, Grett woundyr it is to me. He is resyn by his owyn myght, And fforthe he gothe his wey ful ryght; How xul we now us qwytte, Whan Pylat doth us se? _Tertius miles._ Lete us now go Pilat ontoo, And ryght evyn so, As we have sayn, The trewthe we say, That out of clay, He is resyn this day That Jewys han slayn.