AT NONE.
O Man, at none with mynd behald
The well of lufe, throu droucht quhilk is gane dry!
His eyne wox dym, his flesche wox stif and cald,
For all þe blude is ronn fra his body.
In euery part ded can his palice spy
Him for to reist within a littill ,
Syne with his dart him for sla, allace.
Quhen ded enterit within þe breist of blis,
His nobill hert he graipit in his hand,
Sayand: O King, ȝe haue done no myss,
For ȝour pepill ȝe mone bow till our wand;
For ȝour Fader hes gart ws vnderstand,
That be ȝour ded man is restorit to grace;
Bot þe, saikles, I dred to sla, allace!
O! he full blyth obeyit to þe ded,
For saik of man he in his armes braist;
Syne on his breist he inclynit his heid;
As he wald say, now man I gif þe gaist!
He thocht full lang þe bitter ded till taist,
For mannis saule, quhilk man hes maid
Off hevinnis blis, quhilk him cry: Allace!
With ane gret voce cryit our Salviour,
Sayand: Fader, I coumend in þi handis;
My pvnist spreit now tak into þi cure,
Quhilk Ded hankis herd in his bandis;
Wait none my wo, bot þou þat vnderstandis.
Syne with gret pane he gaif the gaist, allace!
And fra my hert wald bludy teris spring,
For thy passioun to murne baith day and nycht;
My wofull mynd it wald to confort bring;
Off all solace þou had tynt þe sycht:
And I sal be besy with all my mycht,
And sall nocht ceiss to cry, quhill I worth hais,
For my kind Kingis ded to say: Allace!
O cruell Ded, with þe I think to flite,
Quhilk me hes rewit all my conforting.
Allace! my hert is now sowpit in site,
For be þe, Ded, it happinnit þis parting;
Thow art vnricht as Justice for to ring,
The Sone of God in to þi handis þou brace
Fra me pure knycht, to sla my Lord, allace!
O cruell Ded, so bald how durst þow be,
To put handis in him þat aucht þe nocht?
Speik, gif þow dar! and mak ansuer to me,
Thow foull of reif, to end þat has him brocht:
He synnit neuer in word, ded, nor thocht!
But cryme to de, it is ane hevy cais,
Thow hes him slane þairfor but law, allace.
And in þi hert reuth had ony rovme.
The lang lauboure and pane mycht haue ,
Quhilk sustenit this King of gret renoun,
Syne his godheid no man in luff applesit,
He had sic pane, thocht it him nocht displesit,
That all his life to þe wes bot a raiss,
And his confort is now ded, allace.
Into þi band as bond þou had him bund,
Quhen in þe ȝard be enterit for to pray.
His fair body with blude wes all ourerun,
The ded of him put þe in sic affray:
His discipillis þou gart fle him fra.
Syne þai knychtis him dang, quhill he was haiss,
Thir panis cruell neir hand him slew, allace.
Quhen þou saw, þat he wes cleyne of syn,
And be iustice exempit fra þe law,
Fals witnes þou socht to challange him,
Sum causs of ded aganis him to schaw.
Thai band him sair, quhill his fingeris wer haw,
With stoundis scharpe put fra him all solace,
The croune of thorne thirlis his heid, allace.
The purpour claithis, quhilk claif fast till his hide,
With his awne blude þai raifeit fra him on force.
His tender flesche þai brak fra bak to syid,
Na part wes haill of all his tender corss,
Cled him agane, put on his bak a cross,
With twa thewis to ded syne gart him pas;
His fais leuch, his freindis said: Allace.
Apoune þe croce all nakit þai him hang
With sa gret force, quhill þai neir him slew;
To þe boris his armes wes nocht lange,
Thairfor with cordis þai his body drew.
Fra heid to fute þai all his panis renew,
To twyn his wanis wes besynes,
Syne my kind King to sla me fra, allace.
My gle is gone, renewit is my wo,
My spreit is spicit with malancolie.
Ded I defy, for he may do no mo;
For all confort now hes he tane fra me.
My lufe, my life he hes slane on þe tre;
And I for dule neir deis in þis place,
For sueit Jhesu is ded fra me, allace.
Quhen God, maker of euery creatour,
Wes slane for man, quhom he maist nobill maid,
The wale full sone intwa it schure,
For of his ded it mycht nocht bid þe braid.
Als on this wise he to þe Jowis said,
That of þe figour wes drawin þe courting,
Quhilk Crist oure King betaikinnis to thole pyne.
The erd trymbillit, þe craggis raif in schundir,
Grawis oppinnit for dollour and piete.
Senturio and his knychtis had woundir,
With sic a woce sa sone þat he suld de.
He trowit syne and all his cumpany,
Sayand: For suth, þe Sone of God he wes,
And vthir by for ded sone can pas.
Quhen þe pepill wes all passit away,
His awne moder the croce remanit by,
With Madaleyn and Salame alsua,
Eik with Sanct Johnne and Mary Jacoby,
With vthir ma into þair cumpany,
Quhilk followit him rycht as þair awne Souerane,
Deand for dule of his gret wo and pane.
Allace, quhat pane had þis sueit virgin,
Quhen scho hir sone saw de apon þe tre!
His cruell ded hir put in sa gret pyne,
On ground to stand þat sche had na powstie.
Had ded hir tane, he had schawin cherite.
The swerd of dule sa sair hir hert can brace,
Quhilk for his sone hir pynit in þat place.
With e and hert scho lukit to þe tre,
For hir sueit sone all boldin into pane.
Scho said: O croce, I will compleyne on the,
Quhilk but justice my sone Jhesu hes slane.
The frute þou beris be law is nocht þi awne,
For fra þe rute wes neuer sic frute þat grew,
The Haly Gaist it in my body sew.
The frute, þe quhilk I cleyne virgin bure but syn,
Fra ald Adame and all lawis wes fre.
He staw þe frute, and God commandit him
With all his seid for þat trespas to de.
I bair þe frute, keipand virginite;
Thairfor be law to Adam he aucht nocht,
Quhilk neuer synnit in word, dede, nor thocht.
To wile personis sen þat þow hes bene Justice,
Quhilk ewill lif wes haldin euer infamit,
For to ressaue þe nobill Prince of Price,
Quhilk neuer did myss, me think þou suld be eschamit.
To haue said nay, nane mycht þe blamit,
For he is lord of life be wera law,
Thairfor to ded obedience nane he aw.
Quhat wes þe caus of þin iniquite,
Just men and ewill to mak elik in pane?
With strif iquit now lufe and cherite,
Schame for honour he hes gottin agane.
He procurit lif to him, þat hes him slane,
And thou of ded þe minister he bene,
Quhilk is Goddis Sone, put twa thevis betwene.