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 Jhesus. Thy brothyr Lazarus aȝen xal ryse, A levynge man aȝen to be. Martha. I woot wel that at the grett last syse, He xal aryse and also we. Jhesus. Resurreccion thou mast me se, And hendeles lyff I am also; What man that deyth and levyth in me, ffrom deth to lyve he xal ageyn go.

Eche man in me that feytheful is, And ledyth his lyff aftere my lore, Of hendeles lyff may he nevyr mys, Evere he xal leve and deye nevyr more. The body and sowle I xal restore To endeles joye, dost thou trowe this? Martha. I hope in the, O Cryst! ful sore, Thou art the Sone of God in blys!

Thy ffadyr is God of lyff endeles, Thiself is Sone of lyff and gras; To sese these wordlys wrecchydnes, ffrom hefne to erth ethou toke the pas. Jhesus. Of hevynly myght ryght grett solas, To alle this world me xul sone se; Go, calle thi systyr into this plas, Byd Mary Mawdelyn come hedyr to me.

Martha. At thi byddyng I xalle here calle, In hast we were here ȝow beforn. Mawdelyn. Alas! my mowthe is byttyr as galle, Grett sorwyn my herte on tweyn hath scorne; Now that my brothyr from syth is lorn, Ther may no myrthe my care releve. Alas, the tyme that I was borne! The swerde of sorwe myn hert doth cleve.