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 Good Lord, consydyr to me, I drawe fast to an ende; That or my strenthis fro me wende, Gode Lorde, send dow thi son, That I with my ful mende, Myght wurcheppe hym, if I con.

Bothe with my fete and hondys to, To go to hym and handele also, My eyn to se hym in certayn. My tonge for to speke hym to, And alle my lemys to werk and do, In his servyse to be bayn. Send forth thi son, my Lord sovereyn, Hastely anon withowte teryenge; ffor fro this world I wolde be ffayn,— It is contrary to my levynge.

Angelus. Symeon, leff thi careful stevene, ffor thi prayer is herd in hevene; To Jherusalem ffast now wynne. And ther xalt se ful evene, He that is Goddys son ffor to nevene, In the templ ther thou dwellyst inne. The darknes of orygynal synne, He xal make lyght and clarefye; And now the dede xal begynne, Whiche hath be spokyn be prophecye.

Symeon. A! I thank the, Lord of grace, That hath grauntyd me tyme and space, To lyve and byde thys! And I wyl walk now to the place, Where I may se thi sonys face, Whiche is my joye and blys.