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				¶ Mayden, moder milde, 
				Oiez cel oreysoun. 
				From shome thou me shilde, 
				E de ly mal feloun; 
				For love of thine childe, 
				Me menez de tresoun. 
				Ich wes wod ant wilde; 
				Ore su en prisoun. 
				 
				Thou art feyr ant fre, 
				E plein de douçour. 
				Of the sprong the ble, 
				Ly soverein Creatour. 
				Mayde, byseche Y the 
				Vostre seint socour. 
				Meoke ant mylde, be with me      
				Pur le sue amour. 
				 
				Tho Judas Jesum founde, 
				Donque ly beysa; 
				He wes bete ant bounde, 
				Que nous tous fourma. 
				Wyde were is wounde 
				Qe le Gyw ly dona. 
				He tholede harde stounde, 
				Me poi le greva. 
				 
				On ston ase thou stode, 
				Pucele, tot pensaunt, 
				Thou restest the under rode: 
				Ton fitz veites pendant; 
				Thou seye is sides of blode, 
				L'alme de ly partaunt. 
				He ferede uch an fode 
				En mound que fust vivaunt. 
				 
				Ys siden were sore; 
				Le sang de ly cora. 
				That lond was forlore, 
				Mes il le rechata. 
				Uch bern that wes ybore 
				En enfern descenda; 
				He tholede deth therfore, 
				En ciel puis mounta. 
				 
				Tho Pilat herde the tydynge, 
				Molt fu joyous baroun; 
				He lette byfore him brynge 
				Jesu Nazaroun. 
				He was ycrouned kynge 
				Pur nostre redempcioun. 
				Whose wol me synge 
				Avera grant pardoun. 
				
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				¶ Maiden, mother mild, 
				Hear this prayer. 
				Shield me from disgrace, 
				And from the evil villain; 
				For love of your child, 
				Lead me out of treachery. 
				I was mad and wayward; 
				Now I am in prison. 
				 
				You are fair and gracious, 
				And full of gentleness. 
				From you sprang the radiance, 
				The sovereign Creator. 
				Maid, I ask of you 
				Your holy succor. 
				Meek and mild, be with me 
				For love of him. 
				 
				When Judas found Jesus, 
				Then he kissed him; 
				He was beaten and bound, 
				Who created us all. 
				Wide were his wounds 
				That the Jews gave him. 
				He endured hard pangs, 
				But little did it grieve him. 
				 
				On stone as you stood, 
				Virgin, all pensive, 
				You pause under cross: 
				You see your son hanging; 
				You see his bloody sides, 
				The soul parting from him. 
				He made whole each creature 
				Who was living on earth. 
				 
				His sides were painful; 
				The blood flowed from him. 
				That land was forlorn, 
				But he redeemed it. 
				Each child that was born 
				Descended into hell; 
				He suffered death for them, 
				Then rose into heaven. 
				 
				When Pilate heard the news, 
				He was indeed a joyous lord; 
				He ordered brought before him 
				Jesus of Nazareth. 
				He was crowned king 
				For our redemption. 
				Whoever will sing with me 
				Will have great pardon.
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