Classic Poem

‘Stand wel, moder, under roode,
Behold thy child with glade moode;
Blithe moder might thou be.’
‘Sone, how may I blithe stande?
I see thyn feet, I see thyn hande,
Nailed to the harde tree.’

‘Moder, do way thy wepinge;
I thole this ded for mannes thinge;
For owen gilte thole I non.’
‘Sone, I fele the dede-stounde;
The sword is at myn herte-grounde
That me behighte Simeon.’

‘Moder, rew upon they beren!
Thou washe away tho bloody teren;
It don me werse than my ded.’
‘Sone, how might I teres werne?
I see tho bloody floodes erne
Out of thyn herte to myn fet.’ …

‘Moder, if I dare thee telle,
If I ne die, thou gost to helle:
I thole this ded for thine sake.’
‘Sone, thou beest me so minde,
Wit me nought; it is my kinde
That I for thee sorwe make.’

‘Moder, mercy! let me dye,
For Adam out of helle bye,
And al mankin that is forloren.’
‘Sone, what shal me to rede?
Thy pine pineth me to dede;
Let me dyen thee beforen.’

‘Moder, nutarst thou might lere
What pine tholen that childre bere,
What sorwe haven that child forgon.’
‘Sone, I wot, I can thee telle:
Bute it be the pine of helle,
More sorwe ne wot I non.’

‘Moder, rew of moder care,
Now thou wost of moder fare,
Though thou be clene maidenman.’
‘Sone, help at alle nede,
Alle tho that to me grede—
Maiden, wif, and fol wimmàn.’

‘Moder, I may no lenger dwelle;
The time is cume I fare to helle;
The thridde day I rise upon.’
‘Sone, I wille with thee founde,
I dye y-wis of thine wounde;
So rewful ded was nevere non.’ …