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No peace the saints will get within,
It is your trade for to be flyting,
Still in a fever as one raves,
No marvel though you wives be biting,
Your tongues are made of aspen leaves.
Thomas, quoth she, let be your taunts,
You play the pick-thank I perceive,
Tho' you be brother'd 'mong the saints,
An unbelieving heart you have
Thou brought'st the Lord unto the grave,
But would'st no more with him remain,
And wast the last of all the lave
That did believe he rose again.
There might no doctrine do thee good,
No miracles make thee confide,
Till thou beheld Christ's wounds and blood,
And putt'st thy hands into his side:
Didst thou not daily with him bide,
And see the wonders which he wrought?
But blest are they who do eonfide,
And do believe, yet saw him not;
Thomas, she says, will ye but speer,
If that my sister Magdelene,
Will come to me, if she be here;
For comforts sure you give me nane.
He was so blythe and turned back,
And thanked God that she was gane;
