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97. The Mourners at the Cross
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 | Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century |  |
97. The Mourners at the Cross
Sequitur Meditacio de Passione Domini nostri Ihū Cristi
There stood besyde the crosse of Ihū
Hys modyr, hyr sustyr and also Iohne,
Beholdyng his woundes bledyng all new.
They syghyd, þey sobbyd euer in on;
His modyr þus mornyng made her mone:
‘Dere sone, delyuer vs out of pyne,
Take me with the, my ioyes be gone.
Lat bothe be lyke, thy deth and myne.
Hys modyr, hyr sustyr and also Iohne,
Beholdyng his woundes bledyng all new.
They syghyd, þey sobbyd euer in on;
His modyr þus mornyng made her mone:
‘Dere sone, delyuer vs out of pyne,
Take me with the, my ioyes be gone.
Lat bothe be lyke, thy deth and myne.
145
‘Thy peynes to me they be so smert,
My sorow so sore hit wyll nat slake,
That as a swerde they perse my hert
And euer wyll do tyll dethe me take,
The peyne wherof hit maketh me quake
But well I wote to com to the
And euer ioy and myrthe to make—
Full long therto now thynketh me.’
My sorow so sore hit wyll nat slake,
That as a swerde they perse my hert
And euer wyll do tyll dethe me take,
The peyne wherof hit maketh me quake
But well I wote to com to the
And euer ioy and myrthe to make—
Full long therto now thynketh me.’
She lokyd vp hygh vnto the crosse,
She saw her son opon hit hyng.
How myght þat may haue had more losse
Than lese her son, þat was a kyng?
She myndyd well, he made all thyng
And myght haue sauyd hymsylf fro wo.
Therfore sorow to her hert dyd thryng,
That he suffred suche wreches to sle hym so.
She saw her son opon hit hyng.
How myght þat may haue had more losse
Than lese her son, þat was a kyng?
She myndyd well, he made all thyng
And myght haue sauyd hymsylf fro wo.
Therfore sorow to her hert dyd thryng,
That he suffred suche wreches to sle hym so.
‘Allas! dere son, thynkest þu nat on
How thow thyne aungell to me sent,
And seyd þu wold become a mon
To saue mankynde þat þan was shent?
He gret me with grace & good entent,
And seyd I shuld conceue with ryght
The lord on whom my loue ys lent,
For thow art my son and god of myght.
How thow thyne aungell to me sent,
And seyd þu wold become a mon
To saue mankynde þat þan was shent?
He gret me with grace & good entent,
And seyd I shuld conceue with ryght
The lord on whom my loue ys lent,
For thow art my son and god of myght.
‘Gabryell gret me all with grace,
And all with myrthe he myngyd my mode;
And now I loke opon thy face,
And se the hyng there on the rode,
Spoylyd and sprynkelyd all with blode,
Scornyd and scorgyd & all to-shent.
Now may there nothyng do me good,
For sorow and care so hath me hent.
And all with myrthe he myngyd my mode;
And now I loke opon thy face,
And se the hyng there on the rode,
Spoylyd and sprynkelyd all with blode,
Scornyd and scorgyd & all to-shent.
Now may there nothyng do me good,
For sorow and care so hath me hent.
146
‘Somtyme I lappyd the in myne arme,
And thought full kyndely the to kysse;
I weryd the wyll fro all kyn harme,
On the was all my ioy and blysse.
But now methynke hit ys all amysse
To se thy blood renne from thy hert.
But I most take hit as hyt ys,
And sofre sorow with peynes smert.
And thought full kyndely the to kysse;
I weryd the wyll fro all kyn harme,
On the was all my ioy and blysse.
But now methynke hit ys all amysse
To se thy blood renne from thy hert.
But I most take hit as hyt ys,
And sofre sorow with peynes smert.
‘Dere son, thow sokyd vppon my breste,
And coueryd me well fro all kyn care.
I know well þu made bothe man and beste,
Heuyn & erthe & mekyll mare;
But now þu lernyst another lare
And suffrest dethe withoutyn skyll.
Allas! dere son, how shall I fare?
Rewle me & gyde me euen as þu wyll.
And coueryd me well fro all kyn care.
I know well þu made bothe man and beste,
Heuyn & erthe & mekyll mare;
But now þu lernyst another lare
And suffrest dethe withoutyn skyll.
Allas! dere son, how shall I fare?
Rewle me & gyde me euen as þu wyll.
‘I lappyd the, I lullyd the, I layde the soft,
I kyssyd the oft opon my kne;
And now thow makest me syng full oft,
To se the thus hang on thys tre,
‘Allas! wyll hit no better be?
Shall all my Ioyes þus fro me go?’
Make here my ende, take me with the,
And lat me neuer abyde thys wo.’
I kyssyd the oft opon my kne;
And now thow makest me syng full oft,
To se the thus hang on thys tre,
‘Allas! wyll hit no better be?
Shall all my Ioyes þus fro me go?’
Make here my ende, take me with the,
And lat me neuer abyde thys wo.’
Than spake þat lorde wordys full mylde
As he hyng vppon the tre:
‘Woman, take Iohne here to thy chylde.’
And þan anone to Iohne seyd he:
‘Lo here þy modyr, þow may her se.’
And euer aftyr with all hys myght
He socoryd þat lady, blessyd mot she be!
And seruyd her truly bothe day & nyght.
As he hyng vppon the tre:
‘Woman, take Iohne here to thy chylde.’
And þan anone to Iohne seyd he:
‘Lo here þy modyr, þow may her se.’
And euer aftyr with all hys myght
He socoryd þat lady, blessyd mot she be!
And seruyd her truly bothe day & nyght.
147
Yet mornyd that mayden in her mynde,
When she saw þat her chylde was slayne.
Blame her nat, hit was but kynde.
Yet was ther oo þyng made her fayne,
She wyst that he shuld ryse agayne.
But for all that she was full wo
To se her chylde suffre suche payne,
And hang there dede, boþe pale & blo.
When she saw þat her chylde was slayne.
Blame her nat, hit was but kynde.
Yet was ther oo þyng made her fayne,
She wyst that he shuld ryse agayne.
But for all that she was full wo
To se her chylde suffre suche payne,
And hang there dede, boþe pale & blo.
Euer she syghyd & seyde, ‘Allas!
A carefull woman, what shall I do?
My ioy, my comfort in euery cas,
My owne dere chylde ys slayne me fro.
Why wold þese wyked Iewes do so,
To sle my son withoutyn cause?
Wyte me nat þaugh I be wo,
For I may neyther bynde ne lause.’
A carefull woman, what shall I do?
My ioy, my comfort in euery cas,
My owne dere chylde ys slayne me fro.
Why wold þese wyked Iewes do so,
To sle my son withoutyn cause?
Wyte me nat þaugh I be wo,
For I may neyther bynde ne lause.’
That blessyd lady, chosyn for chaste
To bere þat lord þat all thyng wrought—
Heuen and erthe, wode and vaste,
Water and wynde & all of nought—
Her sorow was suche þat she ne rought
To dy, for dole of her son dere;
Hyr sorow so suyd here vnsought
That nothyng myght amende here chere.
To bere þat lord þat all thyng wrought—
Heuen and erthe, wode and vaste,
Water and wynde & all of nought—
Her sorow was suche þat she ne rought
To dy, for dole of her son dere;
Hyr sorow so suyd here vnsought
That nothyng myght amende here chere.
O lorde, syth þu wolde nat her spare,
That of her body toke flesshe & blood,
But as a caytyf let her haue care
When thow hynge nakyd on the rood,
Why shuld we wreches, þat neuer dyd good,
Groge with peyne or aduersite,
But thanke & blysse the with myght & mood
In ioy or sorow, whether that we be?
That of her body toke flesshe & blood,
But as a caytyf let her haue care
When thow hynge nakyd on the rood,
Why shuld we wreches, þat neuer dyd good,
Groge with peyne or aduersite,
But thanke & blysse the with myght & mood
In ioy or sorow, whether that we be?
148
Remembre, lord, of thy goodnes,
Howe with thy blood þu bought mankynde,
And brought hym frely out of dystres
Fro the foule fende, þat dyd hym bynde
Where euer for syn he shuld haue pynyd,
But þat þu for hym dethe wold take.
Let neuer þat sorow renne fro oure mynde,
That thow wold suffer for oure sake.
Howe with thy blood þu bought mankynde,
And brought hym frely out of dystres
Fro the foule fende, þat dyd hym bynde
Where euer for syn he shuld haue pynyd,
But þat þu for hym dethe wold take.
Let neuer þat sorow renne fro oure mynde,
That thow wold suffer for oure sake.
And late þy godhede graunte vs grace
That we may mekely, with all oure myght,
Thanke þe & looue whyle we haue space,
Serue þe & blesse boþe day & nyght
And at owre [dethe] com to þat lyght,
Wheryn þu art & euer shalt be,
And euer abyde þere in þy syght.
Amen Amen, for charyte.
That we may mekely, with all oure myght,
Thanke þe & looue whyle we haue space,
Serue þe & blesse boþe day & nyght
And at owre [dethe] com to þat lyght,
Wheryn þu art & euer shalt be,
And euer abyde þere in þy syght.
Amen Amen, for charyte.
Explicit.
| Religious Lyrics of the XVth Century | |