Meditations on the Supper of our Lord and the Hours of the Passion, by Cardinal John Bonaventura the Seraphic Doctor. Drawn into English verse by Robert Manning of Brunne. (About 1315-1330.) Edited ... with introduction and glossary by J. Meadows Cowper |
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Here begynneþ þe passyun.
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 | Meditations on the Supper of our Lord |  |
Here begynneþ þe passyun.
Now crystyn creature, take goode hede,And do þyn herte for pyte to blede;
Loþe þou nat hys sorowes to se,
Þe whych hym loþed nat to suffre for þe.
Beholde and þenke with ruly mone
What peynes he suffred ar morowe none;
Beholde hym yn an orcherd syttyng,
Hys treytur þere mekely abydyng;
He byt hys dyscyplys pray and wake,
Þat none temptacyun ȝow ouertake;
A stones kast þan from hem he went,
And to hys dere fadyr hys knees he bent.
Now þenke how mekely and how reuerently,
To hys swete fadyr he preyeþ an hy:—
“My wurschypful fadyr, y pray to þe,
Bowe þyn eres and lestene to me,
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For sorowe my soule haþ ȝow soȝt;
My spyryt ys anguyssed ful sore yn me,
Myn herte ys dysturbled, fadyr, now se;
Þou sentest me hedyr, as þy wyl ys,
To bye mankynde aȝen to blys;
To do þy wyl, y seyd y go;
Yn þe bokes hede hyt ys wryte so;
Here haue y be and preched þyn helþe,
Yn pouert, yn trauayle & noþyng yn welþe:
Fadyr, þyn hestes y haue fulfylt,
And more y wyl, ȝyf þou wylt;
Þou seest what sorowe ys to me dyȝt,
Of my foos aȝens alle ryȝt,
Ȝyf any wykkednes ys yn me founde,
Or euyl for euyl haue ȝyue astounde,
Þan were y wurþy þese peynes to fong;
But, fadyr, þou wost weyl þey do me wrong;
Euyl for gode þey haue me ȝoue,
And also grete hate for my loue.
My dyscyple, whych y haue chersed,
Me to betraye hym haue þey hyred;
At þrytty pens my mede ys take,
Þey haue me preysed my wo to awake;
My swete fadyr, y prey to þe,
Ryse vp redyly yn helpe of me,
For þogh þey wyte nat þat y am þy sone,
Ȝyt, by cause þat y here wone,
Lyuyng with hem Innocent lyfe,
Þey shulde nat shape me so grete stryfe.
Þenk þat y stode afore þy syȝt,
To speke for hem boþe gode and ryȝt,
To turne a waye from hem, fadyr, þy mode,
But wheþer nat euyl be ȝulde for gode;
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A vyleynys deþ to me þey shape;
Wharfore, dere fadyr, ȝyf hyt mow be,
Y prey þat þys deþ mow go fro me;
Ȝyf þou se hyt be nat so best,
Þy wyl be ydo, ryȝt as þou lest.
But, fadyr, myn herte y betake þe,
Kepe hyt and strenþe hyt how so hyt be.”
To hys dyscyplys hys wey þan he toke,
He fond hem slepyng and hem sone awoke:
Here yen were slepy and heuy as clay,
He bad hem algates wake and pray.
Aȝen to pray he toke hys pas,
Twyys, þryys, yn dyuers place.
Þe same orysun þat he preyd byfore,
He preyd now and ded to more:
“Fadyr, ȝyf þys deþ mow nat fro me go,
Y am here, þy wyl be algates do.
My swete modyr, fadyr, y þe betake,
My breþren also, kepe hem fro wrake;
Y kepte hem þyrwhylys y was with hem,
My derwurþe fadyr, now kepe þou þem.”
Þus long he preyd tyl þat he wax hote,
For anguys hys blode ran down ryȝt as swote.
Man, take ensample here at goddes sone,
Whan þou shalt pray of god any bone,
Prey so stedfastly tyl þat þou be herde,
For cryst preyd þryes ar þat he were herd.
Whyles he þus preyd yn grete dolour
Seynt myghel lyȝt a down fro heuene toure,
And hym cumforted and seyd þus:
“Alheyl, my lorde, cryst Ihesus!
Þy preyer and þy swote blody
Y haue offred to þy fadyr an hy,
Yn syȝte of alle þe courte of heuene;
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Þat he shuld nat suffre þe dey þus;
Þy fadyr, by resun, answered vs,
‘My derwurþe sone wote þys ful weyl,
Þat mannes soule, þat lyþ yn helle,
May nat semely to blys be broȝt,
But þey with hys blode be fyrst oute boȝt.
Þarfore, ȝyf my sone wyl soules saue,
Nedes he mote for hem þe deþ haue.’”
Þan cryst answered, with mylde state:
“Soules saluatyun y wyl algate,
Þarfore to dey raþer y chese,
Þan we þe soules yn helle shulde lese,
Þe whych my fadyr formed to hys lykenes:
Hys wyl be ydo, y wyll no lesse.”
Þan seyd þe aungel to hym an hy:
“Cumforte þe weyl and do manly;
Hyt ys semely to hym þat ys hyghest,
Grete þynges to do, and suffre mest;
Þy pyne shal sone be ouerpaste,
And ioye shal sewe euer for to last;
Þy fadyr seyþ euer with þe he ys,
Þy modyr he kepeþ and þy dyscyplys.”
Cryst bade þe aungel, “go, grete þou me
To my fadyr dere an hy yn hys cyte.”
Beholde now, how mekely þys cumforte he toke
Of hys owne creature, as seyþ þe boke,
A lytyl from aungels he ys made lesse,
Whyl he ys yn þys valey of dyrknes;
Þys wo he suffred yn hys manhede,
But god suffred naght yn hys god hede.
Þe þryd tyme he ros from hys preyour
All be sprunge with blody coloure;
Beholde hym auysyly, þan shalt þou se
With oute grete dolour þys may nat be.
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“He cumþ ny þat haþ me betrayd.”
Anone come Iudas, with hys cumpanye,
Cryst went aȝens hym ful myldely:
“Heyl, mayster!” he seyd, and to hym sterte,
He kessed hys mouþe with tresun yn herte.
Þo fyl vpp on hym alle þe touþer route,
For erst of knowlechyng þey were yn doute.
Þe cursed houndes runne hym aboute,
And drowe hym furþe, now yn, now oute;
Sum bynte hym, sum blyndyþ hym, & sum on hym spyt,
Sum boffeteþ hym, and sum seyþ, “telle who þe smyt;”
Sum scorneþ hym, and sum syngeþ of hym a song,
Some axen questyons, to do hym wrong;
But to hem no þyng answere he wulde.
Werse þo þan a fole of hem he ys holde,
Some seyd, “where ys now all þy wysdom?
Þou held þe wyser þan any ouþer man;
Of oure patryarkes & prestes þou haddest despyte,
Þarefor þou shalt haue of vs þe deþ astyte;
Thou seyst þat þou art goddes sone,
Helpe þy self ȝyf þou kone.”
Sum seke aȝens hym fals wytnes,
Sum seyn on hym vnsekernes,
Some tugge, sum drawe fro ce to ce,
A! lorde Ihesu, how may þys be?
Þyrwhylys he suffred þys sorow & wo,
Hys dyscyplys runne awey hym fro.
To maudelens hous Ion went ful ryȝt,
Þere as þe soper was made þeke nyȝt;
Oure lady he tolde and here felawshepe
Of here dere sonys shenshepe.
Þenk, man, of þe dyscyplys doyng!
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Here mayster ys take, þat shulde hem kepe;
Þey renne aboute as herdles shepe.
Oure lady wente here seluyn alone,
To þe fadyr of heuene she made þys mone:—
“My wurschypfullest fadyr, and moste meke,
Moste mercyable, and most helpyng eke,
My swete sone y ȝow betake!
Derwurþe fadyr, kepeþ hym fro wrake,
Beþ nat cruel to my dere chylde,
For to alle men ȝe are ful mylde.
Fadyr, shal my chylde be dede, Ihesus,
What haþ he mysdo to dey þus?
But, fadyr, ȝyf ȝe wyl mankynde
Be boȝt to blys withoutyn ende,
Y prey outher wyse doþ bye hem now,
For al þyng ys posyble to ȝow.
Lateþ nat, fadyr, my sone dede be;
Y pray ȝow ȝeldeþ hym aȝen to me;
He ys so buxum to do ȝoure wyl,
Þat he nat chargeþ hym self to spyl.
Helpeþ my sone fro cursed houndes;
Dere fadyr, bryngeþ hym out from here hondes.”
Þenke, man, now & rewe on here syghyng,
For þys preyd she with watyr wepyng.
| Meditations on the Supper of our Lord | |