The Works of William Herebert, OFM

Poem 1: Hostis Herodes impie; Fol. 205r

HErodes, þou wykked fo, wharof ys þy dredinge?
And why art þou so sore agast of Cristes tocominge?
Ne reueth hé nouth erthlich gód þat maketh ous heuene kynges.
Þe kynges wenden here way and foleweden þe sterre,
And sothfast lyȝth wyth sterre lyth souhten vrom so verre,
And sheuden wel þat he ys God in gold and stor and mirre.
Crist, ycleped "heuene lomb," so cóm to seynt Ion,
And of hym was ywasȝe þat sunne nadde nón,
To halewen oure vollouth water, þat sunne hauet uordon.
A newe myhte he cudde þer he was at a feste:
He made vulle wyth shyr water six cannes by þe léste;
Bote þe water turnde into wyn þorou Crystes oune heste.
Wele, Louerd, bœ myd þe, þat shewedest þe today,
Wyth þe uader and þe holy gost wythouten endeday.