The kinges baneres beth forth ilad;
The rode tokne is now tosprad,
Whar he that wrought havet all monkunne,
Anhonged was for oure sunne.

Ther he was wounded and furst iswonge,
With sharpe spere to herte istonge;
To washen us of sunne clene,
Water and blod ther ronne at ene.

Ifolfuld is Davides sawe,
That soth was prophete of the olde lawe,
That saide: “Men, ye mowen isee
How Godes trone is rode tree.”

Ah, tree! that art so fair ikud,
And with kinges pourpre ishrud,
Of wourthy stok ikore thou were,
That so holy limes opbere.

Blessed be thou that havest ibore
The worldes raunsoun that was forlore;
Thou art imaked Cristes weye;
Thorou thee he tok of helle preye.

Ah, croyz! min hope, onliche my trust,
Thee nouthe ich grete with all my lust!
The milde sped in rithfolnesse;
To sunfole men shew milsfolnesse.

Ah God, the heye Trinite,
Alle gostes herye thee!
Hem that thou boughtest on rode tree
Here wissere evermore thou be.