O firy feruence,[587] inflamed wyth all grace, Enkyndelyng hertes with brandis charitable, The endles reward of pleasure and solace, To the Father and the Son thou art communicable _In unitate_ which is inseperable! O water of lyfe, O well of consolacion! Agaynst all suggestions dedly and dampnable Rescu me, good Lorde, by your preseruacion: To whome is appropryed the Holy Ghost by name, The Thyrde Parson, one God in Trinite, 10 Of perfyt loue thou art the ghostly flame: O myrrour of mekenes, pease, and tranquylyte, My confort, my counsell, my parfyt charyte! O water of lyfe, O well of consolacion! Agaynst all stormys of harde aduersyte Rescu me, good Lord, by thy preseruacion. Amen. Quod Skelton, Laureat. [586] _payned_] So Lant’s ed. Other eds. “paynted.” [587] _feruence_] So Lant’s ed. Other eds. “seruence” and “sentence.” Woffully araid,[588] My blode, man, For thé ran, It may not be naid; My body bloo and wan, Woffully araid. Beholde me, I pray thé, with all thi hole reson, And be not so hard hartid, and ffor this encheson, Sith I for thi sowle sake was slayne in good seson, Begylde and betraide by Judas fals treson; 10 Vnkyndly entretid, With sharpe corde sore fretid, The Jewis me thretid, They mowid, they grynned, they scornyd me, Condempnyd[589] to deth, as thou maist se, Woffully araid. Thus nakyd am I nailid, O man, for thy sake! I loue thé, then loue me; why slepist thou? awake! Remembir my tendir hart rote for thé brake, With panys my vaynys constreyn[e]d to crake; 20 Thus toggid to and fro, Thus wrappid all in woo, Whereas neuer man was so,[590] Entretid thus in most cruell wyse, Was like a lombe offerd in sacrifice, Woffully araid. Off sharpe thorne I haue worne a crowne on my hede, So paynyd, so straynyd, so rufull,[591] so red; Thus bobbid, thus robbid,[592] thus for thy loue ded, Onfaynyd[593] not deynyd[594] my blod for to shed; 30 My fete and handes sore The[595] sturdy nailis bore; What myȝt I suffir more Than I haue don, O man, for thé? Cum when thou list, wellcum to me, Woffully araide.[596] Off record thy good Lord y haue beyn and schal bee; Y am thyn, thou artt myne, my brother y call thee; Thé love I enterly; see whatt ys befall me! Sore bettyng, sore thretyng, too mak thee, man, all fre: 40 Why art thou wnkynde? Why hast nott mee yn mynde? Cum ȝytt, and thou schalt fynde Myne endlys mercy and grace; See how a spere my hert dyd race, Woyfully arayd.