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 cumplyn.
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 | Meditations on the Supper of our Lord |  |
The medytacyun of þe oure of cumplyn.
Now ys þe oure y come of cumplyn:Þey leyn þe cors þer hyt shal lyn,
Yn a new sepulcre and feyre y graue,
Þat nycodeme made hym self for to haue:
Þey shette hyt a boute with a grete stone,
And arayde hem faste þen for to gone.
“Abydeþ god breþren, marye gan seye,
Wharto hye ȝe so faste aweye?
Ȝyf ȝe be ful of my dere sone,
Goþ hens, and lateþ me here alone wone;
Whedyr shulde y wende, to frende, ouþer kyn?
Y kan no whedyr go, but ȝyf y had hym;
He was my broþer, my mayster, my spouse;
Now am y wedew, helples yn house.
Wuld god ȝe wulde byrye me with hym!
For þan shulde we neuer departe atwyn.
Now certes my soule ys melted awey:
For ryȝt so loue gan to me seye,
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Y haue hym clepyd, he answereþ noȝt.
Y wyl a byde hym here yn fay,
For he seyde he wulde a ryse þe þryd day.’
But ȝyf þat y hadde trust to hys seyyng,
Myn herte shulde ha broste at hys deyyng.”
Þan Ion cunseyled here, and seyd anone,
“Thys sabbat we mow nat wake a lone:
Ȝyf Iewes here vs take þey wyl vs spylle,
And þus was also ȝoure sones wylle.”
Þan mary answered, myldely wepyng,
“My sone, Ion, toke me yn þy kepyng,
Y most nedys do as þou me byst:”
And ryȝt with þat wurde aswyþe she ryst;
Afore þe sepulcre she kneled a downe,
And wepyng, she made þys lamentacyoun:
“A, swete sone! now wo ys me,
Þat y no lenger may byde with þe,
For nedys y mote now þe forsake,
Þy fadyr of heuene y þe betake;
Oure felawshepe ys now dyuydyd,
For y may nat with þe be byryed;
But certes, swete sone, where so euer y be,
Holy myn herte ys byryed with þe;
Ȝyf þou ryse vp, as þou me behyȝte,
Myn herte shal aryse with þe as lyȝt;
Ȝyf þou ryse nat vp on þe þrydde day,
Truly y am stonede dede for ay.
Þarfore, swete sone, aryse vp and come,
And kyþe weyl þat þou art of heuene goddys sone.”
Þe sepulcre swetly anone she kyst,
Se wente a boute and feyre she hyt blest,
And seyd, “my dere sone, slepe softe yn ese,
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Eftesones þe sepulcre she kyst knelyng,
And cryde þys wurde with strong wepyng,
“A! sone, here may y no lenger lende,
Nedes from þe þou wylt me sende,
Myn herte with þe y leue to wone,
Farwel, farewel, my derewurþe sone!”
With þat wurde certes ny swoned she had,
But Ion lefte here vp, and þens here led.
Towarde þe cyte here wey þey toke,
Oftyn aȝenward marye gan loke.
Whan she come to þe cros, “abydeþ,” she seyd;
“My sone, my sauyour, ryȝt now here deyd;
Here vpp on he haþ boȝt alle man kynne,
Hys precyus blode haþ wasshe oure synne.”
She wurschepyd hyt fyrst, & þan þey echone
Towarde þe cyte here wey gun they gone.
Are she shulde entre, þey kouerd here vysage.
As for a wedew þey dyd þat vsage.
Þey kast where she herbored shulde be,
Eche of hem seyd, “with me, with me.”
Now þe quene of heuene, modyr hyest,
Haþ nat where yn here hede for to reste.
She þanked hem, and seyd, “y am betake
To Ion, and þarfore y may nat hym forsake.”
Ion seyd, “we wyl with maudeleyn a lyȝt,
For þere rested oure mayster a whyle to nyȝt;
Also my breþren wyl come alle þedyr;
Þere wyl we reste and speke to gedyr.”
Þey led here furþe þurgh þat cyte,
Wydewes and wyues of here had pyte.
Whan þey had broȝt here þere echone,
Some token here leue and wenten hom;
Maudeleyn and martha were bysy þat nyȝt,
To serue here alle þat þey myȝt.
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But sorowed, and syghed, and weyled, and wepe,
And euermore seyde, “my derwurþe sone,
For loue y anguysshe tyl þat þou come.”
Anone come petyr, with wepyng chere,
And salude Marye and Ion yn fere.
Þan come þe dyscyplys, eche aftyr oþer,
For shame durst none loke on hys broþer.
Þey asked þe doyng of here dere lorde,
Ion tolde hem þe processe euery aworde.
“Wo me,” seyd petyr, “me shameþ to loke,
For þat y my swete lorde and mayster forsoke,
Wheche loued and chersed me so tenderly:
Wo me, a, wreche, mercy, y cry.”
Also þe dyscyplys here confessyun
Maden and weptyn with lamentacyun.
Þan crystes modyr, here mylde maystres,
Had grete compassyun of here heuynes;
She comforted hem and seyd þus:
“Dysmay ȝow nat for my sone Ihesus,
For þus to hys deþ he wulde be bore,
To saue mannes soule þat was forlore;
Þarto he com with moche stryfe,
Yn traueyle and yn pouert to leden hys lyfe.
No wundyr þogh ȝe forsoke hym yn hys ende,
Hys fadyr forsoke hym socour to sende;
Hymself he forsoke for oure mys dede;
Y preyd for hym, y myȝt no þyng spede;
Certes y am sory for hys grete passyun,
But truly y glade for soules saluacyun;
Þey shulden yn helle for euer be forlore,
But y hym to þys deþ had hym bore;
Ȝe weten weyl how benygne my dere sone was,
Lyȝtly to forȝyue al maner of trespas;
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For largely he ȝyfþ þat cryeþ hyt hertly;
Beeþ of gode cumfort, for trustly y say,
We shullen hym se on þe þrydde day;
Seþþen he haþ boght vs at so grete prys,
Nedes from þe deþ he mote aryse.”
“Certys,” seyd petyr, “þys nyȝt at þe cene,
He seyd eftsones we shuldyn hym sene,
Þan alle oure sorowe to ioye shulde come,
And þat ioye shulde nat from vs be nome.”
“A! breþren!” seyd Marye, “y ȝow pray
Þat swete sermoun ȝe wyl me say.”
A none Ion tolde here, for he coude best,
For slepyng he soke hyt at crystys brest.
Þus þey dwel yn here medytacyun,
Tyl tyme was come of þe resurreccyun.
| Meditations on the Supper of our Lord | |