A Song on the Passion

Summer 's come, and winter gone,
Longer wax the days,
And the birdlings every one,
Joyful songs they raise,
Yet by care I'm straitly bound
Spite of joy that may be found in land,
All for a Child
That is so mild of Hand.

Fair that Child, and wondrous kind,
Mighty is His thought,
Thro' the woods and hills to find
Me, he straitly sought;
And at last He findeth me
Thro' an apple from a tree fast bound,
He brake ere long
The bands so strong, with Wound.

That Child, Who was so fair and free,
To me bent Him low,
Sold unto the Jews for me,
Naught of Him they know,
But they quoth: "Now here shall we
Nail Him high upon a tree on hill,
Yet ere that same
We'll do Him shame at will."

Jesus, is that fair Child's Name,
King of every land,
Of this King have they made game,
Smitten Him with hand,
Fain to try Him: on the tree
Gave Him wounds, yea, two and three full sore,
And therewithal
A drink of gall they bore.

Death He bare on the Rood tree
For the life of all,
Otherwise no help might be,
We to Hell must fall,
And the fires of Hell must meet,
That, I trow, were never sweet withal;
Nor might us save
Tower, castle brave, nor hall.