Swete sone, reu on me   And breste out of thy bondes   For me thinket that I see   Thoru Bothen thin bondes      Nailes driven into the tree   So reufuliche thu honges   Now is betre that I flee   And lett alle these londes      Swete sone, thy faire face   Droppet all on blode   And thy body downward   Is bounded to the rode      How may thy modress hert   Tholen so swete fode   That blessed was of alle born   And best of alle gode      How may thy modress hert   Tholen so swete fode   That blessed was of alle born   And best of alle gode      Swete sone, reu on me   And bring me out of this live   For me thinket that I see   Thy deth, it neyhet swithe      Thy feet nailed to the tree   Now may I no more thrive   For this werld withouten thee   Ne shall me maken blithe