Page:Ludus Coventriae (1841).djvu/242

But, gracyous prophete, lyst to my mone!
  Of my sorwe take compassyon!
Now alle myn enmyes hens be gone,
  Sey me sum wurde of consolacion.
Jhesus. ffor tho synnys that thou hast wrought,
  Hath any man condempnyd the?
Mulier. Nay forsothe that hathe ther nought,
  Butt in ȝour grace I putt me.
Jhesus. ffor me thou xalt nat condempnyd be;
  Go hom ageyn and walke at large:
Loke that thou leve in honesté,
  And wyl no more to synne, I the charge.
Mulier. I thanke ȝow hyȝly, holy prophete,
  Of this grett grace ȝe have me graunt;
Alle my lewde lyff I xal doun lete,
  And ffonde to be Goddys trewe servaunt.
Jhesus. What man of synne be repentaunt,
  Of God if he wyl mercy crave,
God of mercy is so habundawnt,
  That what man haske it he xal it have.

Whan man is contrite, and hath wonne grace,
  God wele not kepe olde wrethe in mynde,
But bettyr love to hem he has,
  Very contryte whan he them fynde.
Now God, that dyed ffor alle mankende,
  Save alle these pepyl, both nyght and day!
And of oure synnys he us unbynde,
  Hyȝe Lorde of hevyn, that best may! Amen.