Ysaac. ffayr fadyr, ȝe go ryght stylle,
I pray ȝow, fadyr, speke onto me.
Abraham. Mi gode childe, what is thi wylle?
Telle me thyn hert, I pray to the.
Ysaac. ffadyr, fyre and wood here is plenté,
But I kan se no sacryfice;
What ȝe xulde offre fayn wold I se,
That it were don at the best avyse.
Abraham. God xal that ordeyn that sytt in hevynne,
My swete sone, ffor this offryng,
A derrere sacryfice may no man nempne,
Than this xal be, my dere derlyng.
Ysaac. Lat be, good fadyr, ȝour sad wepynge!
ȝour hevy cher agrevyth me sore:
Telle me, fadyr, ȝour grett mornyng,
And I xal seke sum help therfore.
Abraham. Alas! dere sone, for nedys must me,
Evyn here the kylle, as God hath sent;
Thyn owyn fadyr thi deth must be,—
Alas! that evyr this bowe was bent.
With this fyre bryght thou must be brent,
An aungelle seyd to me ryght so:
Alas! my chylde, thou xalt be shent!
Thi careful fadyr must be thi ffo!
Ysaac. Almyghty God, of his grett mercye,
fful hertyly I thanke the sertayne:
At Goddys byddyng here for to dye,
I obeye me here for to be sclayne.
I pray ȝow, fadyr, be glad and fayne,
Trewly to werke Goddys wylle:
Take good comforte to ȝow agayn,
And have no dowte ȝour childe to kylle.
Page:Ludus Coventriae (1841).djvu/71
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