Herodes, thou wikked foe, wharof is thy dredinge?
And why art thou so sore agast of Cristes tocominge?

Ne reveth he nouth erthlich good that maketh us hevene kinges.

The kinges wenden here way and foleweden the sterre,
And sothfast light with sterre-light soughten from so ferre,
And shewden well that he is God in gold and stor and mirre.

Crist, icleped hevene lomb, so com to Seint Jon

And of him was iwashe that sinne ne hadde non,
To halewen our follouth water, that sinne havet fordon.

A newe mighte he cudde ther he was at a feste:

He made fulle with shir water six cannes by the leste;
Bote the water turnde into wyn thorou Cristes owne heste.

Wele, Louerd, be mid thee, that shewedest thee today

With the fader and the holy gost withouten ende-day.