ffor he hath bled his blood so red;
But ȝitt of myrthe evyr moor I mys,
Whan I have mende that he is ded.
Christus. Why be ȝe so harde of truste?
Dede not Cryste reyse, thorwe his owyn myght,
Laȝarus that deed lay undyr the duste,
And stynkyd ryght foule, as I ȝow plyght?
To lyff Cryst reysid hym aȝen ful ryght
Out of his grave, this is serteyn;
Why may nat Cryste hymself thus qwyght,