My mouþe I putte, my swere I strecche
Hys feet to kys;
Þe Iewes fro þe cros me kecche,
And on me make her mowe amys,
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¶ Her game and her gawdes;
Þe Iewes wrouȝt on me wo:
Cros, I fynde þou art my fo,
My brid þou berist beten blo;
Line 120
Among þes folys frawdys."
IX.
¶ Cristys Cros þan ȝaf answere:—
"Lady, to þe I owe honour,
Þi bryȝt palme now I bere;
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My schynyng scheweþ of þi flour,
Thy trye fruyt I to-tere;
Þi fruyt me florysschiþ in blood colour
Þe worlde to wynne as þou mayst here;
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Þis blossom blomed in þi bour,
¶ Not all for þe alone,
But forto wynne all þis werd;
Þat waltereþ vndir þe deueles swerd:
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Þorowe foote and honde god lete hym gerd,
To amende mannys mone.
X.
¶ Adam dyd full grete harmes,
He bote a fruyt vnder a bowe,
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Þerfore þi fruit spred hys armes,
On tre þat is tiȝed with tyndes towe;
Hys body is smyte ny þe þarmes,
He swelt with a swemely swow;
Line 140
Hys breest is bored with deeþis armes,
And with hys deeþ fro deeþ vs drowe
