A! brother Thomas, we may be ryght glad Of these gode novelle that we now have; The grace of oure lorde God is over us alle sprad, Oure Lord is resyn his servauntys to save. _Thomas._ Be in pes, Petyr, thou gynnyst to rave, Thy wurdys be wantowne and ryght unwyse; How xulde a deed man, that deed lay in grave, With qwyk fflesche and blood to lyve ageyn ryse? _Petrus._ ȝis, Thomas, dowte the not, oure mayster is on lyve! Record of Mawdelyn and of here systeres too, Cleophas and Lucas, the trewthe ffor to contryve, ffro Jerusalem to Emaws with hym dede they go. _Thomas._ I may nevyr in hert trust that it is so; He was ded on cros and colde put in pitt, Kept with knyghtes iiij., his grave sealyd also, How xulde he levyn ageyn that so streyte was shitt? _Petrus._ Whan Mawdelyn dede telle us that Cryst was aresyn, I ran to his grave, and John ran with me; In trewthe ther we ffownde he lay not in presyn, Gon out of his grave and on lyve than was he. Therfore, dere brother Thomas, I wole rede the Stedfastly thou trust that Cryst is not deed; ffeythfully beleeve a qwyk man that he be, Aresyn from his deth by myght of his Godhed. _Thomas._ I may nevyr beleve these woundyr merveles, Tyl that I have syght of every grett wounde, And put in my ffyngyr in place of the nayles, I xal nevyr beleve it ellys ffor no man on grownde. And tylle that myn hand the sperys pytt hath fownde, Whiche dede cleve his hert and made hym sprede his blood, I xal nevyr beleve that he is qwyk and sownde, In trewth whyl I knowe that he was dede on rood. _Petrus._ Cryst be thi comforte and chawnge thi bad witt! ffor ffeythe but thou have thi sowle is but lorn; With stedfast beleve God enforme the ȝitt, Of a meke mayde as he was ffor us born. _Christus._ Pees be amonge ȝow, beholde how I am torn, Take hede of myn handys, my dere brothyr Thomas. _Thomas._ My God and my Lorde, nyght and every morn I aske mercy, Lorde, ffor my grett trespas. _Christus._ Beholde wele, Thomas, my woundys so wyde Whiche I have sufferyd ffor alle mankynde; Put thin hool hand into my ryght syde, And in myn hert blood thin hand that thou wynde. So ffeythffulle a ffrend were mayst thou fynde? Be stedfast in feythe, beleve wel in me; Be thou not dowtefful of me in thi mynde, But trust that I leve that deed was on a tre. _Thomas._ My Lord and my God, with syght do I se That thou art now qwyk, whiche henge deed on rode; More feythful than I ther may no man be, ffor myn hand have I wasche in thi precyous blode. _Christus._ ffor thou hast me seyn, therfore thi ffeyth is good, But blyssyd be tho of this that have no syght, And beleve in me, they ffor here meke mood Shalle come into hefne, my blysse that is so bryght!