Peter Robins, his website

HIT wes upon a Scere-thorsday that ure loverd aros;
Ful milde were the wordes he spec to Judas.

`Judas, thou most to Jurselem, oure mete for to bugge;
Thritti platen of selver thou bere up othi rugge.

`Thou comest fer ithe brode stret, fer ithe brode strete;
Summe of thine tunesmen ther thou meiht imete.'

. . . . .
Immette wid is soster, the swikele wimon.

`Judas, thou were wrthe me stende the wid ston,
For the false prophete that tou bilevest upon.'

`Be stille, leve soster, thin herte the tobreke!
Wiste min loverd Crist, ful wel he wolde be wreke.'

`Judas, go thou on the roc, heie upon the ston;
Lei thin heved imy barm, slep thou the anon.'

Sone so Judas of slepe was awake,
Thritti platen of selver from hym weren itake.

He drou hymselve bi the cop, that al it lavede a blode;
The Jewes out of Jurselem awenden he were wode.

Foret hym com the riche Jeu that heihte Pilatus:
`Wolte sulle thi loverd, that hette Jesus?'

`I nul sulle my loverd [for] nones cunnes eihte,
Bote hit be for the thritti platen that he me bitaihte.'

`Wolte sulle thi lord Crist for enes cunnes golde?'
`Nay, bote hit be for the platen that he habben wolde.'

In him com ur lord Crist gon, as is postles seten at mete:
`Wou sitte ye, postles, ant wi nule ye ete?

[`Wou sitte ye, postles, ant wi nule ye ete?]
Ic am ibouht ant isold today for oure mete.'

Up stod him Judas: `Lord, am I that . . .?
`I nas never othe stude ther me the evel spec.'

Up him stod Peter, and spec wid al is mihte,
. . . . . .

`Thau Pilatus him come wid ten hundred cnihtes,
Yet ic wolde, loverd, for thi love fihte.'

`Still thou be, Peter, wel I the icnowe;
Thou wolt fursake me thrien ar the coc him crowe.'