 | [Poems from the Vernon MS] |  |
469
XLIII. A Mournyng Song of the loue of God.
1
To loue I-chulle beginneIhesu boþe day and niht;
Of ffleschlich loue to blynne
I-chul don al my miht.
Ihesu wiþ-outen synne
In a Mayden he liht;
Mi loue al for to wynne,
Ihesu bi-com my kniht.
2
He fauȝt a-ȝeyn my fo,A-wey he haþ me led
Þat me wrouȝte ful wo
In care þer I was sted;
Þorw ferly fiht and þro
Þe ffeloun is from me fled,
Mi lemmon let him slo,
In loue to make my bed.
3
Mi lemmon is ful treweOf loue, and ful studefast,
Alle dayes I-liche newe
He loueþ al on a þrast.
I wolde þat alle him knewe
And on him loue cast—
Scholde non of hem alle rewe,
Nouþer furst no last.
4
Mi lemmon is so meke,So hende, so swete, so stille;
fful Mylde he is in speche,
Wiþ-outen wordes grille;
Þe gode he wole al eche,
fforȝeten he wole al ille.
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And wiþ loue he wole me tille.
5
Þeroute al-þauh he stondeCallynge at my ȝate
Til him frese fot and honde,
ffaste vn-to a stake,
He ne takeþ staf ne wonde
Wiþ wraþþe me for to wake;
Mi loue him byndeþ as bonde,
Ȝif I him murþes make.
6
He wol me loueliche a-bydeAl-þauh I dwelle ful longe,
He wol me no-þing be-chide
Al-þauȝ I-chaue þe wronge;
He seiþ: “bi-hold my syde,
And whi on Rode Ich honge.
ffor my loue lef þi pride,
And I þe wole vnderfonge.”
7
Ihesu, þat art so hende,So swete and so þolemood
ffrom þe whon so we weende:
Allas, þat we hit vnder-stod,
And to þe couþe leende
And loue wiþ miht and mood,
To haue wiþ-outen ende
Heuene, þat is so good!
8
Ihesu for me is herteLet þurle þorw-out his syde,
And duntes þolede smerte
And woundes deope and wyde;
Wo and al vnquerte
He þolede, to fordo pride,
Þe foule synne þat me gerte
In helle from him me hyde.
471
9
Ihesu, my lemmon swete:Of loue þat þou art trewe,
Þat is seene in hondes and fete,
In heued, in huyde and hewe,
Þi bodi of blod al wete,
Whon þou gon on me rewe
And me brouȝtest from grete
And from my foule loue vntrewe.
10
So deore hastou me bouhtTo bringe me out of pyne,
Þer I was Inne I-brouht,
I and mo of myne.
Ihesu, so fer þou me souȝt,
Me and mo of þyne,
Þat of þi lyf was þe nouht—
So loþ þe was vs tyne.
11
Mi lemmon let him take,Putte & Bete and Bynde,
So sore as him mihte ake,
His hondes him behynde:
And al was for my sake,
Mi loue so he heold In mynde.
Ich ouȝte euere serwe make,
Vn-trewe ȝif he me fynde.
12
Wiþ pyne vppon þe RodeMe bouȝte my deore lemmon,
Swete Ihesu þe goode,
So muchel of loue he con!
Þe teres he lette of blode
ffor me whon he bi-gon.
Madde þei aren and woode
To leuen him for Sathan!
13
On Roode he wolde abyde,—He wolde nouȝwher fer fle,
472
ffor nayled he is to þe tre.
He spredeþ his Armes wyde,
ffor loue as we mowe se;
His herte þoruȝ-out his syde
He ȝiueþ vs, he is so fre!
14
Mi lemmon haþ so spradHis Armes þat beþ so longe:
ffor-þi am I nouȝt dred,
He wol me vnderfonge.
Whon I was from hym fled,
On hym he tok þe wronge;
To deþe til he was bled,
ffor my loue wolde he honge.
15
He bekeneþ vs to blisseWiþ louynde chere so swete,
His Mouþ he beodeþ to cusse;
ffor vs his lyf he leete
To lere vs and to wisse,
And nayled þorw-out his feete,
Of Mede þat we ne misse
His hondes beoþ þorw weete.
16
Swete Ihesu, þi ore!Þat al hast in þi miht,
What mihtest þow do more
ffor me, þi wrecched wiht?
Of loue þou art my lore,
To come to heuene briht.
Þat herte may be ful sore
To loue þe þat is not diht!
17
Now wol I crie and grete—ffor serwe hit is neiȝ þat I berste,
Min herte-blod to blede
ffor my lef þat is þus feste.
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Þi-self þenne is bote beste.
ffor grymly grete I drede,
Wiþ þi bodi ȝif I reste.
18
How mihti but I greteTil I eode out of my wit?
I seo my lemmon blede
To deþe, to liggen in put;
His syde is schoren as schrede,
His herte a spere haþ hut—
And al for my misde[de]
Was he so felli smit!
19
Now wot I me no won,Lemmon, what I do miht.
I seo Marie and Ion,
Þi Mooder and þy kniht,
fful druri is hire mon
ffor þe þat weore so briht—
Nou is þer deolfolore non
Ne vnlikkore in siht.
20
Þyn eȝen briht as Sonne,Mone and Sterres alle,
Þei woxe deske and dimme,
Þi feire Rode dude falle;
Þi blod was al out Runne.
To drinke whon þou gonne calle,
Þe wikked men beoden þe Eysel & atter,
Bitterore þen þe galle.
21
Wiþ spittyng and wiþ fenAnd blod out-beten sore
Þow weore al out of ken,
A Laȝer as þow wore.
Þei beote þe, þi foo-men,
Of loue to lere vs lore—
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Now and euer-more!
22
Sore I seo þe buyeAl my loue-plawe—
Al is for my folye
Þat þou driȝest heer a þrawe.
Allas þen may I crie,
And her and huyde to-drawe,
I seo my lemmon dyȝe
On Roode wiþ-outen lawe!
23
Allas, Allas, out ay,Þat euer was I boren!
His deþ is Iewes play,
His Coroune is of þorn.
Mi lemmon, weylaway!
ffor me is lyf haþ lorn,
His bodi is al blodi
Be-hynden and bi-foren.
24
I seo in eorþe synke,Lemmon, þin herte-blode,
Þat þow wiþ pyne and swynke
ffor me scheddest on þe Roode.
Þerof whi ne moste I drynke,
Þat is so swete and goode,
On þe þat I mihte þinke
ffor loue ay til I eode wode?
25
Allas, þat I ne couþe,Lemmon, don al þi wille
Wiþ werk, and word of mouþe,
Boþe loude and stille!
Almihti god hit ouþe
I mihte þe to me tille,
So briht so sonne in Souþe,
Of þe þat I mihte haue my wille.
475
26
Marie Mooder Milde,Mi lemmon is þi sone—
Wiþ him þou eodest wiþ childe,
ffor me wiþ him to wone.
I haue ben wood and wylde:
Þou preye him þat I cone
Loue him, & þat he me schilde,
Or eny oþer to mone.
27
Alle oþere I-chulle forsakeAnd don out of my þouȝt,
To þe, Ihesu, I me take—
So deore þou hast me bouht!
Al oþer loue wol make
Endynge and waxe to nouȝt:
Þi loue nul I forsake,
ffor þat bringeþ vs alle o-loft.
28
To wone wiþ þe, bi-leueLemon, vnder þi tre—
May no pyne me greue
Ne do me fro þe fle.
I wol in at þi sleue,
Al in þin herte to be,
Myn herte schal berste and cleue,
Vn-trewe ar þou me se.
29
fful hard hit is, þi bed:A treo þat stondeþ stille,
In wo and weder sted;
Þeroute he hongeþ on hille,
ffor-beten and for-bled
Wiþ Men þat wolden hem spille.
Al þus haþ loue þe led,
Þi lemmon for to tille.
30
Þi-self þou maiȝt not schelde,Ne torne, so art þou fest;
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Þin hed, on for to rest,
Almihti kyng to welde
Al þat is worst and best.
Hou miht I euer þe ȝelde
Þe loue þat þus wol lest?
31
Cloþing hast þou non—ffor scorn men makeþ þe bare;
Þi ffrendes aren from þe gon,
And flowen þat wiþ þe ware,
Alle bote Marie and Ion,
fful of serwe and care—
fful dreri is here mon,
Þi pyne is al þe mare!
32
Ihesu Crist, my lemmon swete,Þat dyȝedest on þe Rode-tre,
Wiþ al my miht I þe bi-seche
ffor þyne woundes two and þre,
Þat as depe in to myn herte
Mot þi loue I-stiked be
As was þe spere in to þyn herte,
Whon þou suffredest deþ for me.
| [Poems from the Vernon MS] | |