When he rose, then fell her sorrow;
Her bliss sprung the third morrow: 
Blithe mother wert thou tho!             then.
Lady, for that ilke bliss,                 same.
Beseech thy son of sunnes lisse:            for sin’s release.
Thou be our shield against our foe.      Be thou.

  Blessed be thou, full of bliss! 
  Let us never heaven miss,
    Through thy sweete Sones might! 
  Loverd, for that ilke blood, Lord,
  That thou sheddest on the rood,
    Thou bring us into heaven’s light.  AMEN.

I think my readers will not be sorry to have another of a similar character.

  I sigh when I sing
    For sorrow that I see,
  When I with weeping
    Behold upon the tree,

  And see Jesus the sweet
  His heart’s blood for-lete yield quite.
    For the love of me. 
  His woundes waxen wete, wet.
  They weepen still and mete:[5]
    Mary rueth thee. pitieth.

  High upon a down, hill.
    Where all folk it see may,
  A mile from each town,
    About the mid-day,
  The rood is up areared;
  His friendes are afeared,
    And clingeth so the clay;[6]
  The rood stands in stone,
  Mary stands her on,
    And saith Welaway!

  When I thee behold
    With eyen brighte bo, eyes bright both.
  And thy body cold—­
    Thy ble waxeth blo, colour:  livid.
  Thou hangest all of blood bloody.
  So high upon the rood
    Between thieves tuo—­ two.
  Who may sigh more? 
  Mary weepeth sore,
    And sees all this woe.

  The nails be too strong,
    The smiths are too sly; skilful.
  Thou bleedest all too long;
    The tree is all too high;
  The stones be all wete! wet.
  Alas, Jesu, the sweet! 
    For now friend hast thou none,

  But Saint John to-mournynde, mourning greatly.
  And Mary wepynde, weeping.
    For pain that thee is on.

  Oft when I sike sigh.
    And makie my moan,
  Well ill though me like,
    Wonder is it none.[7]
  When I see hang high
  And bitter pains dreye, dree, endure.
    Jesu, my lemmon! love.
  His woundes sore smart,
  The spear all to his heart
    And through his side is gone.

  Oft when I syke, sigh.
    With care I am through-sought; searched through.
  When I wake I wyke; languish.
    Of sorrow is all my thought. 
  Alas! men be wood mad.
  That swear by the rood swear by the cross.
    And sell him for nought
  That bought us out of sin. 
  He bring us to wynne, may he:  bliss.
    That hath us dear bought!