Classic Poem

" Stond wel, moder, ounder rode,
Bihold þi child wiþ glade mode,
Moder bliþe migt þou be.
" Sone, hou may Ich bliþe stonde?
Ich se þine fet and þine honde
Inayled to þe harde tre.

" Moder, do wey þi wepinge;
Ich þolie deþ for monnes kuinde,
Wor mine gultes ne þolie I non.
" Sone, Ich fele þe deþes stounde:
þat swerd is at min herte grounde,
þat me byheyte Simeon."

" Moder, do wei þine teres,
þou wip awey þe blodi teres,
Hy doþ me worse þene my deþ.
" Sone, hou migtte Ich teres werne?
I se þine blodi woundes herne
From þin herte to þi fot.

" Moder, nou I may þe seye,
Betere is þat Ich one deye
þen all monkun to helle go.
" Sone, I se þi body iswonge,
þine honde, þine fet, þi bodi istounge,
Hit nis no wonder þey me be wo."

" Moder, if Ich þe dourste telle,
If Ich ne deye þou gost to helle:
I þolie deþ for monnes sake."
" Sone, þu me bihest so milde,
Icomen hit is of monnes kuinde
þat Ich sike and serewe make."

" Moder, merci, let me deye,
For Adam out of helle beye,
And monkun þat is forlore.
" Sone, wat sal me to stounde?
þine pinen me bringeþ to þe grounde,
Let me dey þe bifore."

" Swete moder, nou þou fondest
Of mi pine þer þou stondest;
Wiþhoute mi pine nere no mon.
" Sone, I wot, I may þe telle,
Bote hit be þe pine of helle,
Of more pine ne wot I non."

" Moder, of moder þus I fare
Nou þou wost wimmanes kare;
þou art clene mayden on."
" Sone, þou helpest alle nede
Alle þo þat to þe wille grede,
May and wif and fowel wimmon."

" Moder, I ne may no lengore dwelle.
þe time is comen I go to helle;
I þolie þis for þine sake."
" Sone, iwis I wille founde,
I deye almest, I falle to grounde,
So serwful deþ nes never non."

When he ros þo fel hire sorewe,
Hire blisse sprong þe þridde morewe,
Blyþe moder wer þou þo.
Levedy, for þat ilke blisse,
Bysech þi sone of sunnes lisse,
þou be oure sheld ageyn oure fo.

Blessed be þu, ful of blysse,
Let us never hevene misse,
þourh þi suete sones myht.
Loverd, for þat ilke blode
þat þou sheddest on þe rode,
þou bryng us into hevene lyht.