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