ffbr 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!
Page:Ludus Coventriae (1841).djvu/72
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