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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The medytacyun of þe oure of pryme.
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 | Meditations on the Supper of our Lord |  |
The medytacyun of þe oure of pryme.
On a colde mornyng, at pryme of daye,The prestes and prynces gun hem araye;
Both bollers of wyne and eche agadlyng
Come oute for to se of Ihesus endyng.
Þey shokyn hym oute þan of hys cloþyng,
And bonden hys handys fast hym behynd,
As a þefe among hem led furþe he was,
Now to pylat, now to eroud, now to kayphas.
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And he, as a meke lambe, aftyr hem come.
Hys modyr, Ion, and ouþer kyn,
Wente by a bypaþ to mete with hym.
When þey hym saye so shamely ylad,
No tunge may telle what sorowe þey had.
Þenke, whan hys modyr fyrst hym byhelde,
Aswo she fyl down yn þe felde:
Þan cryst was turmented yn moste kare,
Whan he say hys modyr so pytusly fare.
Beholde to pylat he ys furþe drawe,
Falsly acused aȝens here lawe:
Pylat sent hym to eroude þe kyng,
And eroude þe kyng was glad of hys comyng;
A myracle he coueyted of hym for to se,
But noþer myracle ne wurde hym shewe wulde he.
Þan as a fole eroude hym hadde,
And with a whyte cloþe y skorne hym he clad,
And sente hym aȝen to syre pylate:
And þo was made frenshepe þar arst was debate.
Nat onely a mysdoer now he ys holde,
But as a lewed fole he ys eke tolde:
Þey cryed on hym, as foules on owle,
With wete and eke dung þey hym defoule.
Hys modyr þat tyme folwed hym longe,
And wundred þat he wulde suffre swyche wrong.
Þey broȝt hym to pylate, he stode ful feynt;
Boldely þe howndes pursewed here pleynt.
Pylate þoȝt to delyuer hym,
For no cause of deþ he fonde yn hym:
“Y wyl vndyr neme hym, he seyd þo,
Do scurge hym weyl, and so late hym go.”
To a pylour fast þan þey hym bownde,
Þey bette hym, & rent hym, wounde be wounde.
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Þy cumly kyng stant bounde vpryȝt,
Alle forwounded for þe yn mode;
Beholde how he wadeþ yn hys owne blode!
Ȝyt þey bete hym and leyn on sore,
Tyl þey be wery and mow no more.
Þe pyler þat þey hym to bow[n]den
Ȝyt sheweþ þe blode of hys woundyn.
A, lorde Ihesu! how may þys be?
Ho was so hardy þat spoyled þe?
Ho more hardy þat þe bounden?
Ho moste hardy þat þe wounden?
Almyȝty god! where art þou now?
Þese houndes seme myȝtyer þan þou!
But trewly, þou sone of ryȝtwysnes,
Withdrawest þy bemes ouer oure derkenes.
Whan þey hadde bete hym þus pytusly,
Þey broȝt hym to pylate, & cryed an hy,
“Syre, þys fole kalleþ hym self a kyng!
Cloþe we hym þarfore yn kynges cloþyng.”
Þenk þys was y do at þe oure of pryme:
Þe dowyng of þred now wyl y ryme.
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