Lo se my kyndenes and frome synne awake

I dyde redeme you from the deuylles chayne

And spyte of me ye wyll to hym agayne

 Made I not heuen the moost gloryous mansyon

In whiche I wolde be gladde to haue you in

Now come swete bretherne to myn habytacyon

Alas good brederne with your mortall synne

Why flee ye from me / to torne agayne begynne

I wrought you I bought you ye can it not denye

Yet to the deuyll ye go nowe wyllyngly

  

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    See Me Be (kynde Agayne My payne Reteyne  (in mynde My swete bloode On the roode Dyde the good  (my broder My face ryght red Myn armes spred My woundes bled  (thynke none oder Beholde thou my syde Wounded so ryght wyde Bledynge sore that tyde  (all for thyn owne sake Thus for the I smerted Why arte þou harde herted Be by me conuerted  (& thy swerynge aslake Tere me nowe no more My woundes are sore Leue swerynge therfore  (and come to my grace I am redy To graunte mercy To the truely  (for thy trespace Come nowe nere My frende dere And appere  (before me I so In wo Dyde go  (se se I [A.iiii.]  Crye Hy  (the   

 

[A.iiii.]

Vnto me dere broder my loue and my herte

Turmente me no more with thyn othes grete

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