Þe Sone of god com doun þo
And herde hem preye, mony on mo,
Þei preieden alle ful tenderli
"Haue merci on vs, sone of Daui!"
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ÞE vois þenne of vre heuene kyng
Ouer al þe peynes was herd seying:
"What good ha ȝe don herbifore
Þat ȝe aske reste so sore?
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I was don on cros for ȝou wiþ dere
And smiten wiþ a ful scharp spere,
I-nayled also wiþ nayles þree,
Eysel and Galle to drynke bode me;
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I ȝaf my-self for ȝou to be,
ffor ȝe schulde ouer come wiþ me.
Bote ȝe weore þeues, coueytous,
Proude and wroþe and envyous,
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Good neuer nolde ȝe do non
Ne to schrift nolde ȝe not gon,
Ne do penaunce for no þing
Wiþ Almusdedes ne wiþ fastyng,
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But ȝe weore lyȝers al ȝor lyf
And liueden euere in serwe and strif."
ÞEn kneled Poul and Mihel
And a Milioun Angeles wel
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Bi-fore þe sone of God, to pray
Þei moste ha reste þe sonenday.
Þo weore þeos, as I ow telle
Þat weoren in þe pynen of helle.
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ÞEn seide vr lord to hem in spelle:
"ffor Poul and also Michaelle
And myn oþure Angeles on hiȝe,
Þat ben in heuene so goode and triȝe,
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And also of my grete goodnesse,
Hem to ese of heore distresse,
Þis rest I ȝiue ȝow ful soon
ffrom þe seter-day at Non
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Til þe secunde hour beo cum
On þe Monenday, al and sum."
Anon þe soules hedden þer rest—
He ȝaf hit hem þat mihte best.
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