That ran down bi ys syde;
Fro ys herte don to ys fot,
For us he spradde ys hertis blod,
His wondes wer so wyde.
Ever and aye He haveth us in thought,
He will not lose that He so dearly bought.
And again:—
Now sprinketh[300] rose and lylie flour
That whilen ber that swete savour,