Maria Virgo. A, mercy! mercy! myn owyn sone so dere, Thi blody face now I must kysse! Thi face is pale, withowtyn chere! Of meche joy now xal I mysse! Ther was nevyr modyr that sey this, So her sone dyspoyled with so gret wo; And my dere chylde nevyr dede amys,— A, mercy! fadyr of hefne, it xulde be so! Joseph. Mary, ȝour sone ȝe take to me; Into his grave it xal be browth. Maria. Joseph, blyssyd ever mot thou be, For the good ded that ȝe han wrowth!
Here thei xal leyn Cryst in his grave.
Joseph. I gyf the this syndony that I have bowth,
To wynde the in whyl it is new.
Nichodemus. Here is an onyment that I have browth,
To anoynt withalle myn lord Jhesu.
Joseph. Now Jhesu is withinne his grave,
Wheche I ordeyn somtyme for me;
On the, Lord, I vowche it save,
I knowe my mede ful gret xal be.
Nichodemus. Now lete us leyn on this ston ageyn,
And Jhesu in this tombe stylle xal be;
And we wyl walke hom ful pleyn,—
The day passyth fast I se.
Farewel, Joseph, and wel ȝe be;
No lengere teryeng here we make.
Joseph. Sere, almythy God be with the,
Into his blysse he mote ȝou take!
