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 No peace the saints will get within,

It is your trade to be flyting,

Still in a fever as one raves,

No marvel though you wives be biting,

Your tongues were made of aspen leaves.

Thomas, quoth she, let be your taunts,

You play the pick-thank I perceive,

Tho' you be brother'd 'mong the saints,

An unbelieving heart you have

Thou brought'st the Lord unto the grave,

But would'st no more with him remain,

And wast the last of all the lave

That did believe he rose again.

There might no doctrine do thee good,

No miracles make thee confide,

Till thou beheld Christ's wounds and blood,

And putt'st thy hand into his side;

Didst thou not daily with him bide,

And see the wonders which he wrought?

But blest are they who do confide,

And do believe, yet saw him not;

Thomas, she says, will ye but speer,

If that my sister Magdalene,

Will come to me, if she be here;

For comfort sure you give me nane.

He was so blythe he turned back,

And thanked God that he was gane;

He had no will to hear her crack,