Текст песни Martin Best Ensemble - Edi beo thu hevene quene

Edi beo thu, hevene quene,
Folkes froure and engles blis,
Moder unwemmed and maiden clene,
Swich in world non other nis.
On thee hit is wel eth sene,
Of all wimmen thu havest thet pris;
Mi swete levedi, her mi bene
And reu of me yif thi wille is.

Thu asteghe so the daiy rewe
The deleth from the deorke nicht;
Of thee sprong a leome newe
That al this world haveth ilight.
Nis non maide of thine heowe
Swo fair, so schene, so rudi, swo bricht;
Swete levedi, of me thu reowe
And have merci of thin knicht.

Spronge blostme of one rote,
The Holi Gost thee reste upon;
Thet wes for monkunnes bote
And heore soule to alesen for on.
Levedi milde, softe and swote,
Ic crie thee merci, ic am thi mon,
Bothe to honde and to fote,
On alle wise that ic kon.

Thu ert eorthe to gode sede;
On thee lighte the heovene deugh,
Of thee sprong theo edi blede
The Holi Gost hire on thee seugh.
Thu bring us ut of kare of drede
That Eve bitterliche us breugh.
Thu sschalt us into heovene lede;
Welle swete is the ilke deugh.

Moder, ful of thewes hende,
Maide dreigh and wel itaucht,
Ic em in thine love bende,
And to thee is al mi draucht.
Thu me sschildghe from the feonde,
Ase thu ert freo, and wilt and maucht;
Help me to mi lives ende,
And make me with thin sone isaught.
Thu ert icumen of heghe kunne,
Of David the riche king;
Nis non maiden under sunne
The mei beo thin evening,
Ne that swo derne lovighe kunne
Ne non swo swete of alle thing;
Thi love us brouchte eche wunne:
Ihered ibeo thu, swete thing.