The Brome Play of Abraham and Isaac

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Abraham.

Fader of Heuyn Omnipotent,
Wyth all my hart to the I call;
Thow hast ȝoffe me both lond and rent,
And my lyvelod thow hast me sent;
I thanke the heyly euermore of all.

Fyrst off the erth þou madyst Adam,
And Eue also to be hys wyffe;
All other creaturys of them too cam;
And now thow hast grant to me, Abraham,
Her in thys lond to lede my lyffe.

In my age þou hast grantyd me thys,
That thys ȝowng chyld wyth me schall won;
I love no thyng so myche, iwysse,
Excepe þin owyn selffe, der Fader of blysse,
As Ysaac her, my owyn swete son.

I haue dyuerse chyldryn moo,
The wych I love not halffe so wyll;
Thys fayer swet chyld, he schereys me soo,
In euery place wer that I goo,
That noo dessece her may I fell.

And ther ⌈for⌉, Fadyr of Heuyn, I the prey,
For hys helth and also for hys grace;
Now, Lord, kepe hym both nygth and day
That neuer dessese nor noo fray
Cume to my chyld in noo place.

Now cum on, Ysaac, my owyn swet chyld;
Goo we hom and take owre rest.

Ysaac.
Abraham, myn owyn fader so myld,
To folowe ȝow I am full prest,
Bothe erly and late.

Abraham.
Cume on, swete chyld, I love the best
Off all the chyldryn that euer I begat.

Deus.

Myn angell, fast hey the thy wey,
And onto medyll-erth anon þou goo;
Abrams hart now wyll I asay,
Wethere that he be stedfast or noo.

Sey I commaw[n]dyd hym for to take
Ysaac, hys ȝowng sonne, þat he love so wyll,
And wyth hys blood sacryfyce he make,
Yffe ony off my freynchepe he wyll fell.

Schow hym the wey onto the hylle
Wer that hys sacryffyce schall be;
I schall asay now hys good wyll,
Whether he lovyth better hys chyld or me.
All men schall take exampyll hym be
My commawmentys how they schall fulfyll.

Abraham.
Now, Fader of Heuyn, þat formyd all thyng,
My preyerys I make to the aȝeyn,
For thys day my tender offryng
Here mvst I ȝeve to the, certeyn.
A! Lord God, Allmyty Kyng,
Wat maner best woll make þe most fayn?
Yff I had therof very knoyng,
Yt schuld be don wyth all my mayn
Full sone anon.
To don thy plesyng on an hyll,
Verely yt ys my wyll,
Dere Fader, God alon.

The Angell.

Abraham, Abraham, wyll þou rest!
Owre Lord comandyth þe for to take

Ysaac, thy ȝowng son that thow lovyst best,
And wyth hys blod sacryfyce þat thow make.

Into the Lond of V[y]syon thow goo,
And offer thy chyld onto thy Lord—
I schall the lede—and schow all-soo
Vnto Goddys hest, Abraham, acord,
And folow me vpon thys gren.

Abraham.

Wollecom to me be my Lordys sond,
And hys hest I wyll not wythstond;
Ȝyt Ysaac, my ȝowng sonne in lond,
A full dere chyld to me haue byn.

I had lever, yf God had be plesyd
For to a forbore all þe good þat I haue,
Than Ysaac my son schuld a be desessyd,
So God in Heuyn my sowll mot saue!

I lovyd neuer thyng soo mych in erde,
And now I mvst the chyld goo kyll.
A! Lord God, my conseons ys stronly steryd,
And ȝyt my dere Lord, I am sore aferd
To groche ony thyng aȝens ȝowre wyll.

I love my chyld as my lyffe,
But ȝyt I love my God myche more,
For thow my hart woold make ony stryffe,
Ȝyt wyll I not spare for chyld nor wyffe,
But don after my Lordys lore.

Thow I love my sonne neuer so wyll,
Ȝyt smyth of hys hed sone I schall.
A! Fader of Heuyn, to the I knell,
An hard deth my son schall fell
For to honore the, Lord, wythall.

The Angell.
Abraham, Abraham, thys ys wyll seyd,
And all thys comamentys loke þat þou saue;
But in thy hart be nothyng dysmayd.

Abraham.

Nay, nay, forsoth, I hold me wyll payd,
To plesse my God wyth the best þat I haue;

For thow my hart be heuely sett
To see the blood of my owyn dere son,
Ȝyt for all thys I wyll not lett,
But Ysaac, my son, I wyll goo fett,
And cum asse fast as euer we con.

Now, Ysaac, my owyn son dere,
Wer art thow, chyld? Speke to me.

Ysaac.
My fayer swet fader, I am here,
And make my preyrys to þe Trenyté.

Abraham.
Rysse vp, my chyld, and fast cum heder,
My gentyll barn þat art so wysse,
For we to, chyld, must goo to-geder,
And onto my Lord make sacryffyce.

Ysaac.
I am full redy, my fader, loo!
Ȝevyn at ȝowr handys I stand rygth here,
And watsoeuer ȝe byd me doo,
Yt schall be don with glad chere,
Full wyll and fyne.

Abraham.

A! Ysaac, my owyn son soo dere,
Godys blyssyng I ȝyffe the, and myn.

Hold thys fagot vpon þi bake,
And her myselffe fyere schall bryng.

Ysaac.
Fader, all thys her wyll I packe;
I am full fayn to do ȝowre bedyng.

Abraham.

A! Lord of Heuyn, my handys I wryng,
Thys chyldys wordys all towond my harte.

Now, Ysaac, son, goo we owr wey
Onto ȝon mownte, wyth all owr mayn.

Ysaac.
Gowe, my dere fader, as fast as I may
To folow ȝow I am full fayn,
Allthow I be slendyr.

Abraham.

A! Lord, my hart brekyth on tweyn,
Thys chyldys wordys, they be so tender.

A! Ysaac, son, anon ley yt down,
No lenger vpon þi backe yt hold;

For I mvst make me redy bon
To honowre my Lord God as I schuld.

Ysaac.

Loo, my dere fader, wer yt ys!
To cher ȝow allwey I draw me nere;
But, fader, I mervell sore of thys,
Wy þat ȝe make thys heuy chere;

And also, fader, euermore dred I:
Wer ys ȝowr qweke best þat ȝe schuld kyll?
Both fyer and wood we haue redy,
But queke best haue we non on þis hyll.

A qwyke best, I wot wyll, must be ded,
Ȝowr sacryfyce for to make.

Abraham.
Dred the nowgth, my chyld, I the red,
Owre Lord wyll send me onto thys sted
Summ maner a best for to take,
Throw his swet sond.

Ysaac.

Ȝa, fader, but my hart begynnyth to quake,
To ⌈se⌉ þat scharpe sword in ȝowre hond.

Wy bere ȝe ȝowre sword drawyn soo?
Off ȝowre contenaunce I haue mych wonder.

Abraham.
A! Fader of Heuyn, so I am woo!
Thys chyld her brekyth my harte onsonder.

Ysaac.
Tell me, my dere fader, or that ȝe ses,
Bere ȝe ȝowr sword draw for me?

Abraham.
A! Ysaac, swet son, pes! pes!
For iwys thow breke my harte on thre.

Ysaac.
Now trewly, sumwat, fader, ȝe thynke
That ȝe morne thus more and more.

Abraham.
A! Lord of Heuyn, thy grace let synke,
For my hart wos neuer halffe so sore.

Ysaac.
I preye ȝow, fader, þat ȝe wyll let me yt wyt,
Wyther schall I haue ony harme or noo?

Abraham.
Iwys, swet son, I may not tell the ȝyt,
My hart ys now soo full of woo.

Ysaac.
Dere fader, I prey ȝow, hydygth not fro me,
But sum of ȝowr thowt þat ȝe tell on.

Abraham.
A! Ysaac, Ysaac! I must kyll the.

Ysaac.

Kyll me, fader? alasse! wat haue I don?

Yff I haue trespassyd aȝens ȝow owt,
With a ȝard ȝe may make me full myld;
And wyth ȝowre scharp sword kyll me nogth,
For iwys, fader, I am but a chyld.

Abraham.
I am full sory, son, thy blood for to spyll,
But truly, my chyld, I may not chese.

Ysaac.
Now I wold to God my moder were her on þis hyll!
Sche woold knele for me on both hyre kneys
To save my lyffe.
And sythyn that ⌈my⌉ moder ys not here,
I prey ȝow, fader, schonge ȝowr chere,
And kyll me not wyth ȝowyre knyffe.

Abraham.

Forsothe, son, but ȝyf I the kyll,
I schuld greve God rygth sore, I drede;
Yt ys hys commawment and also hys wyll
That I schuld do thys same dede.

He commawndyd me, son, for serteyn,
To make my sacryfyce wyth thy blood.

Ysaac.
And ys yt Goddys wyll þat I schuld be slayn?

Abraham.
Ȝa, truly, Ysaac, my son soo good,
And therfor my handys I wryng.

Ysaac.
Now, fader, aȝens my Lordys wyll
I wyll neuer groche, lowd nor styll;
He mygth a sent me a better desteny
Yf yt had a be hys plecer.

Abraham.
Forsothe, son, but yf I ded þis dede,
Grevosly dysplessyd owre Lord wyll be.

Ysaac.

Nay, nay, fader. God forbede
That euer ȝe schuld greve hym for me.

Ȝe haue other chyldryn, on or too,
The wyche ȝe schuld love wyll be kynd;

I prey ȝow, fader, make ȝe no woo,
For, be I onys ded and fro ȝow goo,
I schall be sone owt of ȝowre mynd.

Therfor doo owre Lordys byddyng,
And wan I am ded, than prey for me;
But, good fader, tell ȝe my moder nothyng,
Sey þat I am in another cuntré dwellyng.

Abraham.

A! Ysaac, Ysaac, blyssyd mot thow be!

My hart begynnyth stronly to rysse,
To see the blood off thy blyssyd body.

Ysaac.

Fadyr, syn yt may be noo other wysse,
Let yt passe ouer as wyll as I.

But, fader, or I goo onto my deth,
I prey ȝow blysse me wyth ȝowre hand.

Abraham.
Now, Ysaac, wyth all my breth,
My blyssyng I ȝeve þe vpon thys lond,
And Godys also therto, iwys.
A, Ysaac, Ysaac, son, vp thow stond,
Thy fayere swete mowthe þat I may kys.

Ysaac.
Now, forwyll, my owyn fader so fyn,
And grete wyll my moder in erde.
But I prey ȝow, fader, to hyd my eyne,
That I se not þe stroke of ȝowr scharpe swerd,
That my fleysse schall defyle.

Abraham.
Son, thy wordys make me to wepe full sore;
Now, my dere son Ysaac, speke no more.

Ysaac.

A, my owyn dere fader, werefore?
We schall speke togedyr her but a wylle.

And sythyn that I must nedysse be ded,
Ȝyt, my dere fader, to ȝow I prey,
Smyth but fewe strokys at my hed,
And make an end as sone as ȝe may,
And tery not to longe.

Abraham.
Thy meke wordys, chyld, make me afray;
So welawey may be my songe,

Excepe alonly Godys wyll.
A! Ysaac, my owyn swete chyld,
Ȝyt kysse me aȝen vpon thys hyll!
In all thys ward ys ⌈non⌉ soo myld.

Ysaac.
Now, truly, fader, all thys teryyng
Yt doth my hart but harme;
I prey ȝow, fader, make an enddyng.

Abraham.

Cume vp, swet son, onto my arme.

I must bynd thy handys too
Allthow thow be neuer soo myld.

Ysaac.
A, mercy, fader! Wy schuld ȝe do soo?

Abraham.
That thow schuldyst not let [me], my chyld.

Ysaac.

Nay, iwysse, fader, I wyll not let ȝow;
Do on for me ȝowre wyll,
And on the purpos that ȝe haue set ȝow,
For Godys love kepe yt forthe styll.

I am full sory thys day to dey,
But ȝyt I kepe not my God to greve;
Do on ȝowre lyst for me hardly,
My fayer swete fader, I ȝeffe ȝow leve.

But, fader, I prey ȝow euermore,
Tell ȝe my moder no dell;
Yffe sche wost yt, sche wold wepe full sore,
For iwysse, fader, sche lovyt me full wyll;
Goddys blyssyng haue mot sche!
Now forwyll, my moder so swete,
We too be leke no mor to mete.

Abraham.
A, Ysaac, Ysaac! son, þou makyst me to gret,
And wyth thy wordys thow dystempurst me.

Ysaac.
Iwysse, swete fader, I am sory to greve ȝow,
I cry ȝow mercy of that I haue donne,
And of all trespasse þat euer I ded meve ȝow;
Now, dere fader, forȝyffe me þat I haue donne.
God of Heuyn be wyth me!

Abraham.

A, dere chyld, lefe of thy monys;
In all thy lyffe thow grevyd me neuer onys;
Now blyssyd be thow, body and bonys,
That thow were bred and born to me!

Thow hast be to me chyld full good;
But iwysse, chyld, thow I morne neuer so fast,
Ȝyt must I nedys here at the last
In thys place sched all thy blood.

Therfor, my dere son, here schall þou lye,
Onto my warke I must me stede,
Iwysse I had as leve myselffe to dey,
Yffe God wyll be plecyd wyth my dede,
And myn owyn body for to offere.

Ysaac.

A, mercy, fader, morne ȝe no more,
Ȝowr wepyng make my hart sore
As my owyn deth that I schall suffere.

Ȝowre kerche, fader, abowt my eyn ȝe wynd!

Abraham.
So I schall, my swettest chyld in erde.

Ysaac.
Now ȝyt, good fader, haue thys in mynd,
And smyth me not oftyn wyth ȝowr scharp swerd,
But hastely that yt be sped.

Here Abraham leyd a cloth ouer Ysaacys face, thus seyyng:
Abraham.
Now, forewyll, my chyld, so full of grace.

Ysaac.
A, fader, fader, torne downgward my face,
For of ȝowre scharpe sword I am euer adred.

Abraham.
To don thys dede I am full sory,
But, Lord, thyn hest I wyll not wythstond.

Ysaac.
A, Fader of Heuyn, to the I crye,
Lord, reseyve me into thy hand!

Abraham.
Loo, now ys the tyme cum, certeyn,
That my sword in hys necke schall bite.

A! Lord, my hart reysyth therageyn,
I may not fyndygth in my harte to smygth;
My hart wyll not now thertoo,
Ȝyt fayn I woold warke my Lordys wyll;
But thys ȝowng innosent lygth so styll,
I may not fyndygth in my hart hym to kyll.
O, Fader of Heuyn! what schall I doo?

Ysaac.
A, mercy, fader, wy tery ȝe so,
And let me ley thus longe on þis heth?
Now I wold to God þe stroke were doo.
Fader, I prey yow hartely, schorte me of my woo,
And let me not loke thus after my degth.

Abraham.
Now, hart, wy wolddyst not thow breke on thre?
Ȝyt schall þou ⌈not⌉ make me to my God onmyld.
I wyll no lenger let for the,
For that my God agrevyd wold be.
Now hoold the stroke, my owyn dere chyld.

Her Abraham drew hys stroke and þe angell toke the sword in hys hond soddenly.
The Angell.

I am an angell, thow mayist be blythe,
That fro heuyn to the ys senth;
Owre Lord thanke the an hundyrd sythe
For the kepyng of hys commawment.

He knowyt þi wyll and also thy harte,
That thow dredyst hym above all thyng,
And sum of thy hevynes for to departe
A fayyr ram ȝynder I gan brynge;

He standyth teyed, loo! among þe brerys.
Now, Abraham, amend thy mood,
For Ysaac, thy ȝowng son þat her ys,
Thys day schall not sched hys blood;

Goo, make thy sacryfece wyth ȝon rame,
For onto heuyn I goo now hom.

Now forwyll, blyssyd Abraham,
The wey ys full gayn [that I mot gon].
Take up thy son soo free.

Abraham.
A! Lord, I thanke the of thy gret grace,
Now am I yeþed on dyuers wysse.
Arysse vp, Ysaac, my dere sunne, arysse,
Arysse vp, swete chyld, and cum to me.

Ysaac.
A, mercy, fader, wy smygth ȝe nowt?
A, smygth on, fader, onys wyth ȝowre knyffe!

Abraham.

Pesse, my swet sun, and take no thowt,
For owre Lord of Heuyn hath grant þi lyffe,
Be hys angell now,

That þou schalt not dey þis ⌈day⌉, sunne, truly.

Ysaac.
A, fader, full glad than wer I,
Iwys, fader, I sey iwys,
Yf thys tall wer trew!

Abraham.
An hundyrd tymys, my son fayer of hew,
For joy þi mowth now wyll I kys.

Ysaac.
A! my dere fader, Abraham,
Wyll not God be wroth þat we do thus?

Abraham.

Noo, noo! harly, my swyt son,
For he hath sent vs ȝyn same rame
Hethyr down to vs.

Ȝyn best schall dey here in þi sted,
In the worþchup of owr Lord alon;
Goo, fet hym hethyre, my chyld, inded.

Ysaac.

Fader, I wyll goo hent hym be the hed,
And bryng ȝon best wyth me anon.

A, scheppe, scheppe! blyssyd mot þou be
That euer thow were sent down heder!
Thow schall thys day dey for me,

In the worchup of the Holy Trynyté.
Now cum fast and goowe togeder
To my fader in hy;
Thow þou be neuer so jentyll and good,
Ȝyt had I leuer thow schedyst þi blood,
Iwysse, scheppe, than I.

Loo, fader, I haue browt here full smerte
Thys jentyll scheppe, and hym to ȝow I ȝyffe:
But, Lord God, I thank þe with all my hart,
For I am glad that ⌈I⌉ schall leve,
And kys onys my dere moder.

Abraham.
Now be rygth myry, my swete chylld,
For thys qwyke best that ys so myld,
Here I schall present before all othere.

Ysaac.
And I wyll fast begynne to blowe,
Thys fyere schall brene a full good spyd.
But fader, wyll I stowppe down lowe,
Ȝe wyll not kyll me with ȝowre sword, I trowe?

Abraham.
Noo, harly, swet son, haue no dred,
My mornyng ys past.

Ysaac.
Ȝa! but I woold þat sword were in a gled,
For iwys, fader, yt make me full yll agast.

Here Abraham mad hys offryng, knelyng and seyyng thus:
Abraham.
Now, Lord God of Hevyn, in Trynyté,
Allmyty God Omnipotent,
Myn offeryng I make in the worchope of the,
And wyth thys qweke best I the present.
Lord, reseyve thow myn intent,
As [thow] art God and grownd of owr gre.

Deus.

Abraham, Abraham, wyll mot thow sped,
And Ysaac, þi ȝowng son the by!
Trvly Abraham, for thys dede
I schall mvltyplye ȝowrys botherys sede

As thyke as sterrys be in the skye,
Bothe more and lesse;
And as thyke as gravell in the see,
So thyke mvltyplyed ȝowre sede schall be;
Thys grant I ȝow for ȝowre goodnesse.

Off ȝow schall cume frewte gret [won]
And euer be in blysse wythowt ȝynd,
For ȝe drede me as God alon
And kepe my commawmentys eueryschon.
My blyssyng I ȝeffe, wersoeuer ȝe wend.

Abraham.
Loo! Ysaac, my son, how thynke ȝe
Be thys warke that we haue wrogth?
Full glad and blythe we may be,
Aȝens ⌈þe⌉ wyll of God þat we grucched nott,
Vpon thys fayere hetth.

Ysaac.
A, fader, I thanke owre Lord euery dell,
That my wyt servyd me so wyll,
For to drede God more than my detth.

Abraham.
Why! derewordy son, wer thow adred?
Hardely, chyld, tell me thy lore.

Ysaac.
Ȝa! be my feyth, fader, now haue I red,
I wos neuer soo afrayd before
As I haue byn at ȝyn hyll.
But, be my feyth, fader, I swere
I wyll neuermore cume there
But yt be aȝens my wyll.

Abraham.
Ȝa, cum on wyth me, my owyn swet son,
And homward fast now let vs goon.

Ysaac.
Be my feyth, fader, therto I vn,
I had neuer so good wyll to gon hom,
And to speke wyth my dere moder.

Abraham.
A! Lord of Heuyn, I thanke the,
For now may I led hom wyth me
Ysaac, my ȝownge son soo fre,
The gentyllest chyld above all other.

Now goo we forthe, my blyssyd son.

Ysaac.
I grant, fader, and let vs gon,
For be my trowthe, wer I at home
I wold neuer gon owt vnder that forme,
Thys may I wyll avoee.
I pray God ȝeffe vs grace euermo,
And all thow that we be holdyng to.

Doctor.

Lo! sovereyns and sorys, now haue we schewyd,
Thys solom story to gret and smale;
It ys good lernyng to lernd and lewyd,
And þe wysest of vs all,
Wythowtyn ony berryng.
For thys story schoyt ȝowe [her]
How we schuld kepe to owr po[we]re
Goddys commawmentys wythowt grochyng.

Trowe ȝe, sorys, and God sent an angell
And commawndyd ȝow ȝowre chyld to slayn,
Be ȝowre trowthe ys ther ony of ȝow
That eyther wold ⌈groche⌉ or stryve therageyn?

How thyngke ȝe now, sorys, therby?
I trow ther be thre ore a fowr or moo;
And thys women that wepe so sorowfully
Whan that hyr chyldryn dey them froo,
As nater woll, and kynd;
Yt ys but folly, I may wyll awooe,
To groche aȝens God or to greve ȝow,
For ȝe schall neuer se hym myschevyd, wyll I know,
Be lond nor watyr, haue thys in mynd.

And groche not aȝens owre Lord God,
In welthe or woo, wether that he ȝow send,
Thow ȝe be neuer so hard bestad,
For whan he wyll, he may yt amend.

Hys comawmentys trevly yf ȝe kepe wyth goo[d] hart,
As thys story hath now schovyd ȝow befor[n]e,
And feytheffully serve hym qwyll ȝe be qvart,
That ȝe may plece God bothe euyn and morne.
Now Jhesu, that weryt the crown of thorne,
Bryng vs all to heuyn-blysse!

Finis.

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