Swete sone, reu on me
|
And breste out of thy bondes
|
For me thinket that I see
|
Thoru Bothen thin bondes
|
Nailes driven into the tree
|
So reufuliche thu honges
|
Now is betre that I flee
|
And lett alle these londes
|
|
Swete sone, thy faire face
|
Droppet all on blode
|
And thy body downward
|
Is bounded to the rode
|
How may thy modress hert
|
Tholen so swete fode
|
That blessed was of alle born
|
And best of alle gode
|
|
How may thy modress hert
|
Tholen so swete fode
|
That blessed was of alle born
|
And best of alle gode
|
|
Swete sone, reu on me
|
And bring me out of this live
|
For me thinket that I see
|
Thy deth, it neyhet swithe
|
Thy feet nailed to the tree
|
Now may I no more thrive
|
For this werld withouten thee
|
Ne shall me maken blithe
|
|
-----------------
|
Swete Sone
|
| Mediaeval Baebes |
