_Ysaac._ Almyghty God, of his grett mercye, fful hertyly I thanke the sertayne: At Goddys byddyng here for to dye, I obeye me here for to be sclayne. I pray ȝow, fadyr, be glad and fayne, Trewly to werke Goddys wylle: Take good comforte to ȝow agayn, And have no dowte ȝour childe to kylle. ffor Godys byddyng forsothe it is, That I of ȝow my deth schulde take: Aȝens God ȝe don amys, Hys byddyng yf ȝe xuld forsake. ȝowre owyn dampnacion xulde ȝe bake, If ȝe me kepe from this reed; With ȝour swerd my deth ȝe make, And werk evyrmore the wylle of God. _Abraham._ The wylle of God must nedys be done! To werke his wylle I seyd nevyr nay; But ȝit the ffadyr to sle the sone, My hert doth clynge and cleve as clay. _Ysaac._ ȝitt werke Goddys wylle, fadyr, I ȝow pray, And sle me here anoon forthe ryght, And turne fro me ȝour face away, Myne heed whan that ȝe xul of smyght. _Abraham._ Alas! dere childe, I may not chese,— must nedys my swete sone kylle! My dere derlyng, now must me lese, Myn owyn sybb blood now xal I spylle! ȝitt this dede or I fulfylle, My swete sone, thi mouth I kys. _Ysaac._ Al redy, fadyr, evyn at ȝour wylle I do ȝour byddyng, as reson is. _Abraham._ Alas! dere sone, here is no grace, But nedis ded now must thou be! With this kerchere I kure thi face, In the tyme that I sle the. Thy lovely vesage wold I not se, Not for alle this werdlys good: With this swerd, that sore grevyht me, My childe I sle and spylle his blood! _Angelus._ Abraham! Abraham! thou fadyr fre. _Abraham._ I am here redy, what is ȝour wylle? _Angelus._ Extende thin hand in no degré, I bydde thou hym not kylle! Here do I se by ryght good skylle, Allemyghty God that thou dost drede. For thou sparyst nat thi sone to spylle,— God wylle aqwhyte the welle thi mede. _Abraham._ I thank my God in hevyn above, And hym honowre for this grett grace! And that my Lord me thus doth prove, I wylle hym wurchep in every place. My childys lyff is my solace, I thank myn God evyr for his lyff, In sacrifice here or I hens pace, I sle this shepe with this same knyff. Now this shepe is deed and slayn, With this fyre it xal be brent; Of Isaac my sone I am ful fayn, That my swete childe xal not be shent. This place I name, with good entent, The hille of Godys vesytacion: ffor hedyr God hath to us sent His comforte, aftyr grett trybulacion. _Angelus._ Herke, Abraham, and take good heyd! By hymself God hath thus sworne, ffor that thou woldyst a done this dede, He wylle the blysse bothe evyn and morne. ffor thi dere childe thou woldyst have lorn, At Goddys byddyng, as I the telle; God hath sent the word beforn, Thi seed xal multyplye, wher so thou duelle.