Somer is comen and winter gon,
This day biginneth to longe;
And this foules everichon
Joye hem wit songe.
So stronge care me bint,
All wit joye that is funde
In londe,
All for a child
That is so milde
Of honde.

That child, that is so milde and wlonk
And eke of grete munde,
Bothe in boskes and in bank
Isout me havet astunde.
Ifunde he hevede me,
For an appel of a tree
Ibunde;
He brak the bond
That was so strong
Wit wunde.

That child that was so wilde and wlonk
To me alute lowe;

Fram me to Jews he was sold:
Ne cuthen hey him nout knowe.
“Do we,” saiden he,
“Naile we him opon a tree
A lowe;
Ac arst we shullen
Scumi him
A throwe.”

Jhesu is the childes name,
King of all londe;
Of the king he meden game
And smiten him wit honde
To fonden him; opon a tree
He geven him wundes two and three
Mid honden;
Of bitter drinck
He senden him
A sonde.

Det he nom o' rode-tree,
The lif of us alle;
Ne mighte it nout other be
Bote we sholden falle
And fallen in helle dep.
Nere nevere so swet
Wit alle,
Ne mighte us save
Castel, tur,
Ne halle.

Maide and Moder thar astod,
Marye full of grace,
And of here eyen heo let blod
Fallen in the place.
The trace ran of here blod,
Changed here fles and blod
And face.
He was todrawe,
So dur islawe
In chace.

Det he nam, the swete man,
Well heye opon the rode;
He wes ure sunnes everichon
Mid his swete blode.
Mid flode he lute adun
And brac the gates of that prisun
That stode,
And ches here
Out that there
Were gode.

He ros him ene the thridde day,
And sette him on his trone;
He wule come a domes-day,
To dem us everich one.
Grone he may and wepen ay,
The man that deiet withoute lay
Alone.
Grante us, Crist,
With thin uprist
To gone.

Sumer is comen and winter gon,
This day beginnes to longe,
And thes fowles everichon
Joye hem with songe.
So stronge care me bint,
Al with joye that me fint
In londe,
Al for a child
That is so mild
Of honde.

That child, that is so mild and wlank
And eke of grete mounde,
Bothe in boskes and in bank
Y-sought me haves a stounde.
Y-founde He havede me,
For an appel of a tree
Y-bounde;
He brak the bond
That was so strong
With wounde.

That child that was so milde and hold
To me alutte lowe.
From me to Giwes He was sold:
Ne couthen he Him nought knowe.
‘Do wey’, saiden he,
‘Naile we him upon a tree
A lowe;
Ac arst we shullen
Shamy him
A throwe.’

Jesu is the childes name,
King of alle lande;
Of the King he maden game
And smiten Him with hande.
To fonden Him upon a tree
He yeven Him woundes two and three
Mid hande;
Of bitter drink
He senden Him
A sande.

Deth He nam o roode-tree,
The lif of us alle;
Ne mighte it nought other be
Bute we sholden falle;
And wallen in helle dep
N'ere nevere so swet
Withalle;
Ne mighte us savy
Castel, towr,
Ne halle. . . .

Deth He nam, the swete mon,
Wel heye upon the roode.
He wesh our sinnes everichon
Mid His swete bloode.
Mid floode He lighte adown
And brak the yates of that prisoùn
That stoode,
And ches here
Out that there
Were goode.

He ros Him ene the thridde day
And sette Him on His trone.
He wille come a Domesday
To deme us everichone.
Grone he may and wepen ay,
The man that deyeth withoute lay
Alone.
Grante us, Crist,
With thyn uprist