Bothe Moyses and Aaron and othyr mo, In holy Scrypture ȝe may rede it, Of Crystis dethe thei spak also, And how he xuld ryse out of his pitt. Owt of ffeyth than why do ȝe fflitte, Whan holy prophetys ȝow teche so pleyne? Turne ȝour thought and chaunge ȝour witte, And truste wele that Cryst dothe leve ageyne. _Lucas._ Leve ageyn! man, be in pes; How xulde a ded man evyr aryse? I cowncelle the suche wurdys to ses, ffor dowte of Pylat, that hyȝ justyce. He was slayn at the gre asyse, Be councelle of lordys many on; Of suche langage take bettyr avyse, In every company ther thou dost gon. _Christus._ Trewthe dyd nevyr his maystyr shame; Why xulde I ses than trewth to say? Be Jonas the prophete I preve the same, That was in a whallys body iij. nyghtis and iij. day; So longe Cryst in his grave lay, As Jonas was withinne the se; His grave is brokyn that was of clay, To lyff resyn aȝen now is he. _Cleophas._ Sey nott so, man, it may not be, Thow thyn exaumple be sumdele good; ffor Jonas on lyve evyr more was he, And Cryst was slayn upon a rood. The Jewys on hym they were so wood, That to his herte a spere they pyght, He bled owt alle his herte blood; How xulde the thanne ryse with myght? _Christus._ Take hede at Aaron and his dede styk, Whiche was ded of his nature, And ȝit he floryschyd with flowres ful thyk, And bare almaundys of grett valure. The dede styk was signifure, Holy Cryst that shamfully was deed and slayn, As that dede styk bare frute ful pure, So Cryst xuld ryse to lyve ageyn. _Lucas._ That a deed styk ffrute xulde bere, I merveyle sore therof i-wys; But ȝitt hymsylf ffro dethe to rere, And leve ageyn, more woundyr it is. That he doth leve, I trost not this, ffor he hath bled his blood so red; But ȝitt of myrthe evyr moor I mys, Whan I have mende that he is ded. _Christus._ Why be ȝe so harde of truste? Dede not Cryste reyse, thorwe his owyn myght, Laȝarus that deed lay undyr the duste, And stynkyd ryght foule, as I ȝow plyght? To lyff Cryst reysid hym aȝen ful ryght Out of his grave, this is serteyn; Why may nat Cryste hymself thus qwyght, And ryse from dethe to lyve ageyn? _Cleophas._ Now trewly, sere, ȝour wurdys ben good, I have in ȝow ryght grett delyght; I pray ȝow, sere, with mylde mood, To dwelle with us alle this nyght. _Christus._ I must gon hens anon ful ryght, ffor grett massagys I have to do; I wolde abyde, yf that I myght, But at this tyme I must hens go. _Lucas._ ȝe xal not gon fro us this nyght, It waxit alle derke, gon is the day, The sonne is downe, lorn is the lyght,— ȝe xal not gon from us away. _Christus._ I may not dwelle, as I ȝow say, I must this nyght go to my ffrende; Therfore, good bretheryn, I ȝow pray, Lett me not my wey to wende.