Walter Kennedy Poems

Ane aigit man, twyss fourty yeiris,
Eftir þe haly dayis of Yule,
I hard him say, amangis þe Freiris
Of Ordour Gray, makand grit dule,
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Leiff luif, my luif, no langir I it lyk,
Altir our amowris in to observance;
Eschew þe sword of vengence, or it stryk;
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Hail, Cristin Knycht! Haill, etern confortour!
Haill, Riall King, in trone celistiall!
Haill, Lampe of Licht! Haill, Jhesu Saluitour,
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INCIPIT PASSIO.
God of his grace and gudness infinit
Sa nobill maid þe man, his creatour,
That of himselfe [he] knawlage had perfite,
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THE RESSURECTIOUN.
This blissit Prince baid giffand conforting
To þe fathiris, quhilk in the lymbe þat lay,
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Als to þe castell sevin myll fra þe ciete
Off his discipillis passand on pasche day,
His cruell pane rehersand with piete,
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Within þi mynd remember, man, at terce,
How to Pilat þai him brocht agane.
His gret diseis with all hert reherss,
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O Man, at none [þou] with mynd behald
The well of lufe, throu droucht quhilk is gane dry!
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To þe I say, o Lady Virgine cleyne,
Off my worschip þou art baith crop and rute,
Thoucht I wes wile, throu flewour now I schyn ...
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At matin hour, in middis of the night,
Wakened of sleep, I saw beside me soon,
Ane aged man, seemed sixty years of sight,
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