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 euensong.
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 | Meditations on the Supper of our Lord |  |
The medytacyun of þe oure of euensong.
Now wyl y telle of euensong oure.Se, man, a syȝte of grete doloure:
Twey laddres afore þe cros now stonde,
Ioseph and nychodeme to clymbe þey fonde,
With pynsours, pryuyly, and ouþer gere.
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Pryuyly with here pynsours sore þey plyȝt,
Lest marye shulde gryse sore of þat syȝte.
Þey haled harde ar hyt wulde be,
Þe nayles stokyn so fast yn þe tre;
Ful faste þey wrastyn, no þyng þey wounden,
Nedes þey mote brese foule hys honden;
But ryȝtwus god accepteþ alle þyng
Of eche man, mekely aftyr hys menyng.
Whan þey hadde drawe oute þe nayles with fors,
Ioseph bare vp þe precyous cors,
Whyl hys felawe to þe fete wente,
And myȝtily þat nayle oute he hente.
Whan þe nayles were oute echone,
Nychodeme pryuyly toke hem to Ione.
Anone runne to alle þat were þere,
And hylpe þat precyus body to bere.
Ion bare hys breste and wepte ful sore,
For þeron he rested þe nyȝt before;
Hys fete bare maudeleyn and on hem weep,
For at hem here synnes she lette;
Þo þat were þere bare alle þe touþer,
Saue hys ryȝt honde bare marye hys modyr.
Feyn wulde she ha bore more of here dere sone,
But grete sorowe here strengþe had ouercome.
Þat arme wepyng ofte she kyste,
She kolled hyt, she clypped hyt vp on here brest.
But euer whan she behelde þat grysly wounde,
For sorowe & for feyntnes she fyl to þe grounde.
Oftyn she seyd, “a, sone! a, sone!
Where ys now alle þat werk become,
Þat þou were wunt to werche with þys honde,
Feuers and syke men to brynge oute of bonde?
A, flesshe! a, fode! moste feyre and most fre,
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Why fadest þou? no fylþe yn þe ys founde,
For synneles y bare þe yn to þys mounde.
A! mannes synne dere hast þou boȝt,
With a gretter prys myȝt hyt neuer be boȝt.”
Þys cumpany furþe þan þys cors gun karye,
And prayd hys modyr no lenger hem tarye.
Wyþ oynementys and shetes þey wuldyn hyt dyȝt,
And bery hyt anone for hyt was ny nyȝt.
Þan seyd she, “y pray ȝow a bone:
Takeþ nat my sone fro me so sone,
Beryeþ me raþer with hym yn graue,
For, oþer dede or alyue, y mote hym haue.”
At þe laste she consented, so long þey pray;
Þan to byrye þys body þey hem aray.
Þys body was leyde vpp on a shete,
To anoynte and sewe hyt downe þey sete;
Marye hys modyr at þe hede sate;
She lyfte hyt, she leyd hyt feyre yn here lape,
She behylde hyt, how hyt was ybroke,
Prykket, and broysed wyþ many a stroke;
Shaue also boþe berde and hede,
With þornes þey rente, with blode alle rede.
Yn a story truly þys resun y nam,
Þat god ones seyd to an holy womman,
Whan Iewes had dampned hym deþ for to haue,
Shamely berde and hede gun þey shaue.
The euangelystys telle nat of þys doyng,
For þey myȝte nat wryte alle þyng.
Of hys berde y fynde a resun,
Þe whyche seyd Isaye yn goddys persone:
“My body y ȝaue to men smytyng,
And also my chekes to men grubbyng.”
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Swaþed here sones hede alle aboute;
“Sone, y was wunt þe swetly to wrappe,
Now swaþe y þe dede, here yn my lappe.”
The touþer anoynted hym and closed þe shete,
Tyl þey com adowne ny to hys fete;
Maudeleyn prayd, þat hys fete she myȝt dresse,
For þer she gate of here synnes grace & forȝyuenes:
She wepte, and wysshe hem with many a tere,
She keste hem, and wyped hem with here feyre here.
Whan þe cors alle was y dyȝt,
To þe sepulcre þey bygan to bere hyt ful ryȝt.
| Meditations on the Supper of our Lord | |