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 confide,
And do believe yet saw him nought;
Thomas, she says, will ye but speer,
If that my sister Magdalen,
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 he was gane;
He had no will to hear her crack,
But told it Mary Magdalen.
⁠When that she heard her sister's mocks,
She went unto the gate with speed:
And asked her who's there that knocks?
'Tis I the wife of Beith indeed.
She said, good mistress, you must stand
Till you be tried by tribulation.
⁠Sister, quoth she, give me your hand,
Are we not both of one vocation?
It is not through your occupation
That you are placed so divine,
My faith is fixed on Christ's passion,
My soul shall be as far as thine.