Compatience perses, reuth and marcy stoundes
In middis my hert, and thirles throw the vanes.
Thy deid, Jesu, thy petuous, cruel woundes,
Thy grim passion, gret tormentes, grevous panes,
Ingraved sadlye in my spreit remanes.
Sen me of nought thou hes bought with thy blude,
My ene, for doloure, woful teres ranes,
When that I see thee haled on the Rude
In Simon lepros hous of Bathany
Thy feit anointed Mary Magdalen
With precius balme and nardus-spikardy.
Sho passed fra time, hir sinnes wer forgeven.
Thy fleshe and blude in breid and wine betwen
Gaif thy disciples, and lawlye woshe thair feit.
Thy manheid dred thy passioun to sustene,
When that thou prayed on Monte Oliveit.
To gide the Jowes come Judas Scariot
And kist thee Christ — all the disciples fled.
To ane wraiched man, Caiphas, and Pilot,
Bund as ane theif, so wes thou harled and led,
Till Herod had, in purpor habit cled.
For hethin, halsed, blasphemed with mony blaw,
Beft at ane pillar, blaikned and forbled,
At Locostratus whair thay leid the law.
Cuttes for thy cot thay keist, was never sewed;
Out-throw thy hernis the crown of thorn thay applied;
Vailland thine ene, into thy visage spitted,
And for derisioun, " King of Jowes", thay cried.
That night thy name Sanct Peter thris denied.
Drowned in dule mirk was thy mind, Mary.
To wonder on, throw Jerusalem thou hied
To see thy awin sone, that thou fostered, de.
Ruffed on Croce thir wordes did repeit,
" Scicio". Right sone thay served thee with gall.
Sharpe wes the speir, the nales lang and gret,
Thy ribbes racked, thy face ourespitted all.
To Golgatha, Godis sone celestiall,
Thy Croce with force thou bure with cure and heit.
Thy tender hid and fleshe virginall
Werry forwreght, in watter, blude and sweit.
Throw Maryis saule the swerd of dolour thrist,
When that thou said, " Se thair thy sone, woman,"
Commending hir to John the Evangelist.
Sharp, bludy teres hir crystal ene out ran.
Swolled wer thy siddes, for scurges bla and wan,
Naiked and paill, ded on the Croce thou hang.
Thy vanes bursen, thy senowes shorn, than,
Crowned with thorne, for scorne, two theves amang.
My woful hert is baith rejosed and sade,
Thy corps, Lorde Jesu Christ, when I behalde.
Of my redempcioun I am baith blyth and glaid;
Seand thy panes, sorelye weip I walde.
Cryand, " Hely", thy gaistlye spreit thou yalde
To Longus' hande: thy blude ran in ane rest;
Thy woful moder swoned, stif and calde,
When thou inclined with, " Consummatum est".
Dirk wes the sone fra the sext hour to nine.
Montanes trimbled, hilles shuke and roches claif.
Centurio said, " Thou art Goddis sone divine."
Joseph decurio spiced thee in thy graif
With myr and must, most vertuis and suaif.
Thay gert thee de and forgaif Berrabas.
My saule with sanctes, Salviour resaif,
Sen that thy Passioun purged my trespas.
In middis my hert, and thirles throw the vanes.
Thy deid, Jesu, thy petuous, cruel woundes,
Thy grim passion, gret tormentes, grevous panes,
Ingraved sadlye in my spreit remanes.
Sen me of nought thou hes bought with thy blude,
My ene, for doloure, woful teres ranes,
When that I see thee haled on the Rude
In Simon lepros hous of Bathany
Thy feit anointed Mary Magdalen
With precius balme and nardus-spikardy.
Sho passed fra time, hir sinnes wer forgeven.
Thy fleshe and blude in breid and wine betwen
Gaif thy disciples, and lawlye woshe thair feit.
Thy manheid dred thy passioun to sustene,
When that thou prayed on Monte Oliveit.
To gide the Jowes come Judas Scariot
And kist thee Christ — all the disciples fled.
To ane wraiched man, Caiphas, and Pilot,
Bund as ane theif, so wes thou harled and led,
Till Herod had, in purpor habit cled.
For hethin, halsed, blasphemed with mony blaw,
Beft at ane pillar, blaikned and forbled,
At Locostratus whair thay leid the law.
Cuttes for thy cot thay keist, was never sewed;
Out-throw thy hernis the crown of thorn thay applied;
Vailland thine ene, into thy visage spitted,
And for derisioun, " King of Jowes", thay cried.
That night thy name Sanct Peter thris denied.
Drowned in dule mirk was thy mind, Mary.
To wonder on, throw Jerusalem thou hied
To see thy awin sone, that thou fostered, de.
Ruffed on Croce thir wordes did repeit,
" Scicio". Right sone thay served thee with gall.
Sharpe wes the speir, the nales lang and gret,
Thy ribbes racked, thy face ourespitted all.
To Golgatha, Godis sone celestiall,
Thy Croce with force thou bure with cure and heit.
Thy tender hid and fleshe virginall
Werry forwreght, in watter, blude and sweit.
Throw Maryis saule the swerd of dolour thrist,
When that thou said, " Se thair thy sone, woman,"
Commending hir to John the Evangelist.
Sharp, bludy teres hir crystal ene out ran.
Swolled wer thy siddes, for scurges bla and wan,
Naiked and paill, ded on the Croce thou hang.
Thy vanes bursen, thy senowes shorn, than,
Crowned with thorne, for scorne, two theves amang.
My woful hert is baith rejosed and sade,
Thy corps, Lorde Jesu Christ, when I behalde.
Of my redempcioun I am baith blyth and glaid;
Seand thy panes, sorelye weip I walde.
Cryand, " Hely", thy gaistlye spreit thou yalde
To Longus' hande: thy blude ran in ane rest;
Thy woful moder swoned, stif and calde,
When thou inclined with, " Consummatum est".
Dirk wes the sone fra the sext hour to nine.
Montanes trimbled, hilles shuke and roches claif.
Centurio said, " Thou art Goddis sone divine."
Joseph decurio spiced thee in thy graif
With myr and must, most vertuis and suaif.
Thay gert thee de and forgaif Berrabas.
My saule with sanctes, Salviour resaif,
Sen that thy Passioun purged my trespas.