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 þredde oure.
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 | Meditations on the Supper of our Lord |  |
The medytacyun of þe þredde oure.
Wyþ purpyl þey cloþed hym alle yn skorne,And syþen krounde hym with a croune of þorne;
Yn hys hand a rede dyd þey take,
And manyone on hys hede þey brake;
Þey sette hym opunly yn here seyng,
And knelyd, and seyd, “heyl, syre kyng!”
A Ihesu! þy pacyens may nat be tolde.
Þou angry man, þy sauyour here beholde;
For þe he suffred þys pyne, þys shame,
And for a lytyl wurde þou wylt men grame.
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And seyd, “syre, saue Cesar, we haue no kyng;
Who hym self a kyng wyl make
By lawe þe deþ he most take.”
Tho seyd pylat, “what wyl ȝe with hym?”
Þey cryed, “crucyfye, crucyfye hym!”
Pylat þan dredde for þe peples voys,
And dampnede hys lorde to dye on þe croys.
Ha, fals Iustyce! where fynst þou þat resun,
So for to dampne an ynnocent man?
Whan he was dampned on cros for to hong,
Þe houndes wulde not tary hym long,
But anone from pylat þey led hym oute,
And ioed þat here malys was broȝt aboute.
A cros was fet furþ, boþe long and grete,
Þe lengþe þerof was fyftene fete.
Vp on hys shulder þys cros þey kast,
Þat hys bak bent and wel ny to braste;
Þey punged hym furþe þurgh euery slogh,
As an hors ys prykked þat goþ yn plogh.
Beholde now, man, with wepyng herte,
And late nat þy þoȝt lyȝtly a sterte.
Cryst goþ krokedly þys heuy cros vndyr,
And feyntly hyt bereþ, hyt ys no wundyr.
Þey hye hym, and ho goþ withoutyn any stryfe,
And bereþ hys owne deþ, and bereþ þy lyfe.
Ȝyt hym ys shape more shame and shenshepe;
Þeuys be broȝt to hym yn hys felawshepe!
Ȝyt more, for cryste bereþ hys owne, Iuwyse,
Y fynde nat þat þe þeues ded þe same wyse.
A, Ihesu! what shame þey do to ȝow here,
To make ȝow so vyleynsly þese þeues fere.
But nedys þe prophecye mot be fulfylled,
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Mary hys modyr folewed a ver,
She myȝt for pres come hym no ner;
A shorter wey for to chese þan bygan she,
To mete with here swete sone withoute the cyte;
And þo she say hym þat grete tre bere,
Half dede she wax and swouned ryȝt þare;
Ful feyne she wulde hys peynes alyþed;
She myȝt nat, so þese houndes hym hyed.
None of hem myȝt speke ouþer to,
For sorowe þat eche had of ouþer þo.
Furþe þey dryuen hym with hys berdoun,
Tyl he for feyntnesse fyl ny adoun.
For ouer long tyme þat cros he bare,
Þe place weyl shewyþ, who so haþ be þare.
Thos howndes were lothe hys deþ for to tarye,
Þey dredyn þat pylat hys dome wulde varye,
For euer hyt semed by hys wylle,
Þat he was loþ Ihesu to spylle.
A man þey mette, and hym areyned,
To bere þe cros þey hym constreyned;
So furþe as a þefe, Ihesu þey nam,
Tyl þey to þe mounte of caluarye cam.
| Meditations on the Supper of our Lord | |