ue of mother-care, _take pity upon._
For now thou wost of mother-fare, _knowest._
Though thou be clean maiden mon."[4]
"Sone, help at alle need
Alle those that to me grede, _cry._
Maiden, wife, and full wymmon." _woman with child._

"Mother, may I no longer dwell;
The time is come I shall to hell;
The third day I rise upon."
"Son, I will with thee founden; _set out, go._
I die, I wis, for thy wounden:
So sorrowful death nes never none." _was not never none._

When he rose, then fell her sorrow;
Her bliss sprung the third morrow:
Blithe mother wert thou tho! _then._
Lady, for that ilke bliss, _same._
Beseech thy son of sunnes lisse: _for sin's release._
Thou be our shield against our foe. _Be thou._

Blessed be thou, full of bliss!
Let us never heaven miss,
Through thy sweete Sones might!
Loverd, for that ilke blood, _Lord,_
That thou sheddest on the rood,
Thou bring us into heaven's light. AMEN.

I think my readers will not be sorry to have another of a similar
character.

I sigh when I sing
For sorrow that I see,
When I with weeping
Behold upon the tree,

And see Jesus the sweet
His heart's blood for-lete _yield quite._
For the love of me.
His woundes waxen wete, _wet._
They weepen still and mete:[5]
Mary rueth thee. _pitieth._

High upon a down, _hill._
Where all folk it see may,
A mile from each town,
About the mid-day,
The rood is up areared;
His friendes are afeared,
And clingeth so the clay;[6]
The rood stands in stone,
Mary stands her on,
And saith Welaway!

When I thee behold
With eyen brighte bo, _eyes bright both._
And thy body cold--
Thy ble waxeth blo, _colour: livid._
Thou hangest all of blood _bloody._
So high upon the rood
Between thieves tuo-- _two._
Who may sigh more?
Mary weepeth sore,
And sees all this woe.

The nails be too strong,
The smiths are too sly; _skilful._
Thou bleedest all too long;
The tree is all too high;
The stones be all wete! _wet._
Alas, Jesu, the sweet!
For now friend hast thou none,

But Saint John to-mournynde,