In the templ ther thou dwellyst inne.
The darknes of orygynal synne,
He xal make lyght and clarefye;
And now the dede xal begynne,
Whiche hath be spokyn be prophecye.
Symeon. A! I thank the, Lord of grace,
That hath grauntyd me tyme and space,
To lyve and byde thys!
And I wyl walk now to the place,
Where I may se thi sonys face,