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 the wurdys þat cryst spak hangyng vpp on þe cros.
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 | Meditations on the Supper of our Lord |  |
The medytacyun of the wurdys þat cryst spak hangyng vpp on þe cros.
Thenk how cryst, hongyng on þe cros,Seuene [wur]dys [seide] with ful ruly voys.
Þe fyrst wurde þat he þere hongyng seyd,
For hys crucyfyers mekely he preyd,
“Fadyr, forȝyue hem here synnes sone,
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Grete loue, grete pacyens, þys wurde shewyþ þe,
Þat þou shust pray for hem þat þy foos be.
Þe secunde wurde to hys modyr was mone:
“Womman,” he seyd, “beholde þy sone.”
To hys dyscyple he seyd a nouþer,
And seyd, “beholde þy modyr, broþer.”
He wulde nat marye hys modyr clepe,
Lest for grete loue here herte wulde breke.
Þe þred to þe þefe,—“forsoþe y seye þe,
To day yn blys þou shalt be with me.”—
Þe fourþe he cryed wyþ voys an hy,
“Eli, Eli, lamaȝabatany!”
Þat ys, my god, my god, wharto
Hast þou forsake me yn my wo!
As who seyþ, þou me forsakest,
And for þys wurlde to day me betakest.
Þe fyþe wurde he seyd, “y þryste:”
Þan þe houndes wroȝtyn werste.
Þey þoȝte to noye hym moste of alle,
And ȝaue hym to drynke aysel and galle.
He tastede sumdele hys þryst for to lyne:
A! A! how strong was þat pyne.
Þogh yt he expoūn̄ed yn a sermoun,
Þat he þrysted soulys saluacyun,
Ȝyt truly þe manhede þrysted on þe rode,
For he was ful drye for faute of blode.
The syxte wurde anone he spellede,
And seyd, “alle þyng ys now fulfylled.”
As who seyþ, fadyr, fulfylled y haue
Alle þyn hestys, þy soules to saue:
Y haue be skurged, scorned, dyffyed,
Wounded, angred, and crucyfyed;
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Þarfore, dere fadyr, take me to þe.
Ȝyf þou wylt more, y wyl hyt fulfylle,
For here now y hange to do þy wylle.
Þan seyd hys fadyr, my derwurþe sone,
Com to þy blys þere euer to wone;
Alle þyng fulweyl þou hast fulfylled,
Y wyl no more þat þou be þus spylled,
For soules þou haste broȝt oute of bonde,
Come sone and sytte on my ryȝt honde.
Anone he traueyled as men done þat dyen,
Now shyttyng, now kastyng vpward, hys yen,
Þrowyng hys hede, now here, now þore,
For bodely strengþe haþ he no more;
Þe seuenþe wurde ful loude þan he spake:
“Fadyr, yn þyn handys my spyryt y betake.”
He ȝelde vp hys goste, hys fadyr þankyng,
Toward hys brest hys hede hangyng.
Þan to þat crye Centuryo turned sone,
And seyde, “forsoþe þys was goddys sone.”
For wyþ þat grete crye þe goste gan furþe go:
Ouþer men whan þey deye do nat so.
Þat crye was so grete, as y þe telle,
Þat hyt was weyl herde downe yn to helle.
Þenk now, man, what ioye þere ys
Whan soules ben broȝt from pyne to blys.
A! how long þey haue þere lyne,
To abyde here sauyour yn many a pyne;
Þey cleped, and cryed, “com goddes sone,
How long shul we yn þys wo wone?”
Here endeþ now crystys passyun,
Fulfylled yn þe oure of syxte and none.
| Meditations on the Supper of our Lord | |