Johannes. A! holy moder, schul ye from us gone? My brether of this tydyngis sore wyl repent, That ȝe schuld ben absent. Ever trybulacyon, Lord, meche thou us sendyst, Thou oure mayster and oure comfort from us ascendist. And now oure joye, thy moder, to take thou pretendist, Thanne alle oure comfort is from us detent. But what seyde then aungyl, moder, onto you more? Maria. He brouth me this palme from my sone thore; Qwyche I beseke, as the aungyl me bad, That aforn my bere by you it be bore, Saynge my dirige devouthly and sad; ffor, John, I have herde the Jewys meche of me spelle. Johannes. A! good Lady, what likyth it you to telle? Maria. Secretly they ordeyne in here conseytis felle, When my sowle is paste where Godis sete is, To brenne my body and schamly it quelle, ffor Jhesu was of me born that they slew with here fistis; And therfore I beseke you, John, both fleche and felle Helpe I be beryed, for yn yow my tryst is. Johannes. ffere yow not, Lady, for I schal wyth you duelle: Wolde God my brether were here now and wyst this.
Hic subito omnes apostoli congregentur ante portum mirantes,
A! holy brether, wyth grace be ye met here now:
Lord God, what menyth this sodeyne congregacyon?
Now, swete brother Powle, wyl ye take this upon yow?
Preye to God for us alle we may have relacyon.
Paulus. Good brother Peter, how schuld I here pray now,
That am lest and most unworthy of this congregacyon?
I am not worthy to be clepyd apostle sothly I say yow,
ffor as a wood man ageyn Holy Cherche I mad persecucyon,
But nevertheles I am the grace of God in that that I am, lo!
Petrus. A! gret is youre lownesse, Powle, brother evermo!
Paulus. The keyes of hevene, Peter, God hath you betake,
And also ye ben peler of lith and prynce of us alle;
