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 sorowe þat oure Lady had for þe wunde yn here sone syde.
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 | Meditations on the Supper of our Lord |  |
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The medytacyun of þe sorowe þat oure Lady had for þe wunde yn here sone syde.
Now gyn we a medytacyunOf a swete lamentacyun,
Þat mary, modyr meke and mylde,
Made for here derwurþe chylde.
Grete peynes she suffred here byfore,
But now she suffreþ moche more;
For whan she say hym drawe to ende,
Y leue she wax oute of here mynde;
She swouned, she pyned, she wax half dede,
She fylle to þe grounde, and bette here hede.
Þo Ion ran to here, and here vpbreyde.
Whan she myȝt speke, þese wurdes she seyd:
“A, my sone! my socour! now wo ys me:
Ho shal graunte me to deye wyþ þe?
Þou wrecched deþ, to me þou come,
And do þe modyr dye with þe sone;
Aboue alle þyng y desyre þe:
Com deþ, and to my sone þou brynge me.
My fadyr, my former, my mayster, my make,
Why, swete sone, hast þou me forsake?
Þenk how we loued and leued to gedyr,
And late vs now, dere sone, deye togedyr.
Y may nat lyue here withoute þe,
For alle my fode was þe to se.
A sone! where ys now alle my ioyyng,
Þat y hadde yn þy furþe beryng?
Y wys þat ioye ys turned to wo:
Symeon seyd soþ hyt shulde be so.
He seyd a swerd my soule shulde perce;
Sertes, swete sone, þys y reherce.”
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And softly and myldely aȝen she þo spake:
“Now ȝe gode wymmen, seeþ, with ȝoure yen,
Ȝyf þyr be any sorowe lyke vnto myn:
My sone ys slawe here afore myn ye,
Þe whyche y bare wenles of my body.
Þere was neuer womman bare swyche a chylde,
So gode, so gracyus, so meke and so mylde;
Y feled no sorow yn hys beryng,
Nedys þan mote yn hys deyyng.
Myn owne gete ys fro me take,
What wundyr ys þan þoȝ y wo make?”
Whyles she sate yn here lamentacyun,
A cumpany armed she say fast come;
Þe whych ware sent yn a grete reke,
Þe dampned mennes legges to breke;
To sley hem and kast here bodyes away,
Þat none shulde se hem hange yn þe halyday.
A, mary, modyr, þy wo wexyþ newe!
Se, man, here martyrdom, and þeron rewe.
For so oft she was martyred to day,
As ofte as here sone turmented she say.
She seyd, “my sone, what wul þey more do,
Haue þey nat crucyfyed and slayn þe þerto?
Y wende þey had be all ful of þe.
Now derwurþe sone, haue reuþe on me.
Sone, y may helpe þe yn no degre,
But ȝyt wyl y do þat ys yn me.”
To þe cros foote hastly she ran,
And clypped þe cros faste yn here arme,
And seyd, “my sone here wyl y dey,
Ar þou from me be bore aweye.”
Faste þese houndes come rennyng ryue,
And founde þe Iewes boþe alyue;
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And founde a grete dyche and kast hem þer ynne.
Se wende þey wulde so serue here sone,
And þoȝt with mekenes hem ouercome;
On knees she knelyd with here felawshepe,
And seyd, “seres, y prey ȝow of frenshepe,
Pyneþ hym no more, brekeþ nat hys þees;
Ȝyueþ hym me hole, for ded ȝe seeþ he ys;
Y wyl hym byrye my self and ouþer,
Haueþ reuþe on me, hys sory modyr.”
Ey, lady! what do ȝe to knele wepyng
Þus at þese houndes fete, socour sekyng?
Of salamons sawys ȝe are nat auysed,
Þat meknes of proude men ys alle dyspysed.
Þan longeus þe knyȝt dyspysed here pleynt,
Þat þo proude was, but now, be mercy, a seynt.
A spere he sette to crystys syde,
He launced and opun[de] a wounde ful wyde.
Þurgh hys herte he prened hym with mode,
And anone ran downe watyr and blode.
AA, wrong! aa, wo! aa, wykkednes!
To martyre here for here mekenes.
Þe sone was dede he felte no smerte,
But certes hyt perced þe modrys hert.
Þey wounded here, and heped harm vp on harmes;
She fyl, as for dede, yn maudeleyns armys.
A! Ihesu, þys dede ys wundyr to me,
Þat þou suffrest þy modyr be martyred for þe.
Þo Ion stert vp fresshly a none,
And seyd, “wykked men, what wul ȝe done?
Haue ȝe nat slayn hym with wrong and wo?
What wyl ȝe sle hys modyr also?
Goþ hens, for we wyl byrye hym anone.”
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Whan mary was waked oute of here swoun,
Aȝens þe cros she sate here adowne;
Pytusly she behelde þat grysly wounde;
Fro wepyng she ne myȝt stynte no stounde.
What sorowe made Ione, crystys derlyng,
What maudeleyn, with teres hys fete wasshyng,
What Iacobe, what cleophe, and ouþer mo,
Y wys no tunge may telle here wo.
Ful feyn þey wulde Ihesu down taken,
But strengþe and ynstrumentys boþe þey lakkyn.
Among hem þey kast þe best to done,
Sum seyd þe nyȝt wulde nyghe ful sone:
Ȝyf we here wake, deþ shul we þole,
Ȝyf we go hens, þys body shal be stole.
Þey preyde to god sum socur hem sende,
For lyfe ne for deþ þey nolde þens wende.
A newe cumpanye þey say þo comyngge,
Instrumentys and oynementys with hem bryngyngge.
Oure lady dred sore þat þey were enmyes,
Tyl Ihone on hem hadde sette gode aspyes;
“Beþe of gode cumforte,” he seyde, “þey seme
Ioseph of barmathy and nychodeme.”
Þys was here comyng; whan þey come þedyr
Þey wurscheped þe cros and salude to gedyr,
And þanked god þat þedyr hem sente:
Oure lady preyd hem to do here entent.
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