O my harte is wo

O my harte is wo!’
Mary she said so,
“For to see my dere son die,
And sones have I no mo.’

When that my sweté sone
Was thirty winter old,
Than the traitor Judas
Wexéd very bold;
For thirty plates of money
His master he had sold.
But whan I it wist,
Lord, my hart was cold!

Upon Shere Thursday
Than truly it was,
On my sonnés deth
That Judas did compass.
Many were the fals Jewes
That folowed him by trace,
And there beffore them all
He kissed my sonnés face.

My son beffore Pilat
Brought was he,
And Peter said three times
He knew him not, parde.
Pilat said unto the Jewes
‘What say ye?’
They criéd with one voice,
‘ Crucifige, crucifige.’

On Good Friday
At the mount of Calvary
My son was don on the crosse,
Nailéd with nailés three.
Of all the frendés that he had
Never one could he see,
But jentill John the evangelist
That still stode him by.

Though I were sorowfull,
No man have at it wonder;
For houge was the erth quake,
Horible was the thonder.
I loked on my swete son
On the crosse that I stode under;
Then cam Lungeus with a spere
And clift his hart in sonder.