Nowel el el el el el el el el el el el el el el el
Mary moder, cum and se,
Thi sone is naylyd on a tre,
Hand and fot he may not ge,
His body is woundyn al in woo.
Thi swete sone, That thou hast born,
To save mankynde that was for-lorn,
His hed is wrethin in a thorn,
His blysful body is al to-torn.
Quan he this tale be-gan to telle,
Mary wold non longer dwelle,
But hyid here faste to that hylle,
Ther Jhesu his blod be-gan to spylle.
Myn swete sone, that art me dere,
Qwy han men hangyd the here?
Thi hed is wrethin in a brere;
Myn lovely son, qwer is thi chere?
Thin swete body, that in me rest,
Thin comely mowth, that I hve kest,
Now on rode is mad thi nest,
Leve chyld, quat is me best?
Woman, to Jon I the betake!
Jon kyp this woman for myn sake,
For synful sowlys my deth I take,
On rode I hange for manys sake.
This game alone me muste play,
For synful sowle I deye to dey,
Ther is no wyot that goth be the way,
Of myn peynys can wel say.
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Nowel el el el el el el el el el el el el el el el
Mary moder, cum and se,
Thi sone is naylyd on a tre,
Hand and fot he may not ge,
His body is woundyn al in woo.
Thi swete sone, That thou hast born,
To save mankynde that was for-lorn,
His hed is wrethin in a thorn,
His blysful body is al to-torn.
Quan he this tale be-gan to telle,
Mary wold non longer dwelle,
But hyid here faste to that hylle,
Ther Jhesu his blod be-gan to spylle.
Myn swete sone, that art me dere,
Qwy han men hangyd the here?
Thi hed is wrethin in a brere;
Myn lovely son, qwer is thi chere?
Thin swete body, that in me rest,
Thin comely mowth, that I hve kest,
Now on rode is mad thi nest,
Leve chyld, quat is me best?
Woman, to Jon I the betake!
Jon kyp this woman for myn sake,
For synful sowlys my deth I take,
On rode I hange for manys sake.
This game alone me muste play,
For synful sowle I deye to dey,
Ther is no wyot that goth be the way,
Of myn peynys can wel say.
Mary moder, cum and se,
Thi sone is naylyd on a tre,
Hand and fot he may not ge,
His body is woundyn al in woo.
Thi swete sone, That thou hast born,
To save mankynde that was for-lorn,
His hed is wrethin in a thorn,
His blysful body is al to-torn.
Quan he this tale be-gan to telle,
Mary wold non longer dwelle,
But hyid here faste to that hylle,
Ther Jhesu his blod be-gan to spylle.
Myn swete sone, that art me dere,
Qwy han men hangyd the here?
Thi hed is wrethin in a brere;
Myn lovely son, qwer is thi chere?
Thin swete body, that in me rest,
Thin comely mowth, that I hve kest,
Now on rode is mad thi nest,
Leve chyld, quat is me best?
Woman, to Jon I the betake!
Jon kyp this woman for myn sake,
For synful sowlys my deth I take,
On rode I hange for manys sake.
This game alone me muste play,
For synful sowle I deye to dey,
Ther is no wyot that goth be the way,
Of myn peynys can wel say.