Till thou beheld Christ’s wounds and blood,
And putt’st thy hands 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 Magdelene,
Will come to me, if she be here;
For comforts sure you give me nane.