_Cleophas._ ȝa, betwen to thevys, alas! for shame, They henge hym up with body rent; Alas! alas! they were to blame, To cursyd and cruel was ther intent. Whan for thurste he was nere shent, Eyȝil and galle thei ȝovyn hym to drynke; Alas! for ruthe his dethe thei bent In a ffowle place of horryble stynke! _Lucas._ ȝa, and cawse in hym cowde they non fynde; Alas, for sorwe! what was here thought? And he dede helpe bothe lame and blynde, And alle seke men that were hym browght: Aȝens vice alwey he wrought, Synfulle dede wold he nevyr do, ȝit hym to kylle thei sparyd nought; Alas! alas! why dede they so? _Jhesus._ Welle ovyrtake, ȝe serys in same, To walke in felachep with ȝow I pray. _Lucas._ Welcom, serys, in Goddys name! Of good felachep we sey not nay. _Jhesus._ Qwhat is ȝour langage, to me ȝe say, That ȝe have to-gedyr, ȝe to? Sory and evysum ȝe ben alway, ȝour myrthe is gon; why is it so? _Cleophas._ Sere, me thynkyth thou art a pore pylgrym Here walkynge be thiselfe alone, And in the ceté of Jerusalem, Thou knowyst ryght lytyl what ther is done; ffor pylgrymys comyn and gon ryth sone, Ryght lytyl whyle pylgrymes do dwelle; In alle Jerusalem as thou hast gone, I trowe no tydynges that thou canst telle. _Jhesus._ Why, in Jherusalem what thynge is wrought? What tydynges fro thens brynge ȝe? _Lucas._ A! ther have they slayn a man for nought; Gyltles he was, as we telle the; An holy prophete with God was he, Myghtyly in wurde and eke in dede; Of God he had ryght grett poosté, Amonge the pepyl his name gan sprede. He hyght Jhesu of Naȝarethe, A man he was of ryght grett fame; The Jewys hym kylde with cruel dethe, Without trespas or any blame: Hym to scorne they had grett game, And naylid hym streyte ontylle a tre; Alas! alas! me thynkyth grett shame, Without cawse that this xulde be. _Cleophas._ ȝa, sere, and ryght grett troste in hym we had, Alle Israel countré that he xuld save; The thrydde day is this that he was clad In coold cley and leyd in grave. ȝitt woundyrful tydynges of hym we have, Of women that sought hym beforn day-lythe; Wethyr they sey truthe or ellys do rave, We can not telle the trewe verdythe. Whan Cryst in grave thei cowde not se, They comyn to us and evyn thus tolde, How that an aungelle seyd to them thre, That he xuld leve with brest fful bolde. ȝitt Petyr and John preve this wolde, To Crystys grave they ran, thei tweyne; And whan they come to the grave so coolde, They fownde the women fful trewe serteyne. _Jhesus._ A! ȝe ffonnys and slought of herte ffor to beleve in holy Scrypture! Have not prophetys with wurdys smerte, Spoke be tokenys in signifure, That Cryste xuld deye ffor ȝour valure, And syth entre his joye and blys? Why be ȝe of herte so dure, And trust not in God that myghtful is?