Symeon Justus. I have be prest in Jherusalem here, And tawth Goddys lawe many a ȝere, Desyrynge in alle my mende, That the tyme we neyhand nere, In whiche Goddys son xul apere, In erthe to take mankende. Or I deyd that I myght fynde, My Savyour with myn ey to se; But that it is so longe behynde, It is grett dyscomforte onto me. ffor I waxe olde and wante my myght, And begynne to fayle my syght, The more I sorwe this tyde; Save only, as I telle ȝow ryght, God of his grace hath me hyght, That blysful byrth to byde; Wherfore now here besyde, To Sancta Sanctorum wyl I go, To pray God to be my gyde, To comfort me aftyr my wo.
Here Symeon knelyth and seyth,
A! gode God in Trinité!
Whow longe xal I abyde the,
Tyl that thou son thou doth sende,
That I in erthe myght hym se?
