With eyen brighté bo, _eyes bright both._
And thy body cold--
Thy ble waxeth blo, _colour: livid._
Thou hangest all of blood _bloody._
So high upon the rood
Between thieves tuo-- _two._
Who may sigh more?
Mary weepeth sore,
And sees all this woe.

The nails be too strong,
The smiths are too sly; _skilful._
Thou bleedest all too long;
The tree is all too high;
The stones be all wete! _wet._
Alas, Jesu, the sweet!
For now friend hast thou none,

But Saint John to-mournynde, _mourning greatly._
And Mary wepynde, _weeping._
For pain that thee is on.

Oft when I sike _sigh._
And makie my moan,
Well ill though me like,
Wonder is it none.[7]
When I see hang high
And bitter pains dreye, _dree, endure._
Jesu, my lemmon! _love._
His woundés sore smart,