Jesu Crist, sod God, sod man,
Loverd, thu rew upon me,
Of prisun thar ich in am
Bring me ut and makye fre.
Ich and mine feren sume,
God wot ich ne lyghe noct,
For othre habbet misnome,
Ben in thys prisun ibroct.
Almicti; that wel licth,
Of bale is hale and bote,
Hevene king, of this woning
Ut us bringe mote.
Foryhef hem, the wykke men,
God, yhef it is thi wille,
For wos gelt we bed ipelt
In thos prisun hille.
Ne hope non to his live,
Her ne mai he belive,
Heghe thegh he stighe,
Ded him felled to grunde.
Nu had man wele and blisce,
Rathe he shal tharof misse,
Worldes wele mid ywise
Ne lasted buten on stunde.
Maiden, that bare the heven king,
Bisech thin sone, that swete thing,
That he habbe of hus rewsing,
And bring us of this woning
For his muchele misse;
He bring hus ut of this wo,
And hus tache werchen swo,
In those live go wu sit go,
That we moten ey and o
Habben the eche blisce.
