 | Christ's Burial |  |
The prologe of this treyte or meditation off the buryalle of Criste and mowrnyng þerat
A soule that list to singe of loue
Of Crist that com tille vs so lawe,
Rede this treyte, it may hym moue,
And may hym teche lightly with-awe
Off the sorow of Mary sumwhat to knawe,
Opon Gud Friday afternone;
Also of the appostiles awe,
And how Mawdleyn sorowe cessit not son;
And also
How Josephe of Aramathye
And othere persons holye,
With Nichodeyme worthely,
How in thair harte had wo.
Of Crist that com tille vs so lawe,
Rede this treyte, it may hym moue,
And may hym teche lightly with-awe
Off the sorow of Mary sumwhat to knawe,
Opon Gud Friday afternone;
Also of the appostiles awe,
And how Mawdleyn sorowe cessit not son;
And also
How Josephe of Aramathye
And othere persons holye,
With Nichodeyme worthely,
How in thair harte had wo.
Fyrst lat vs mynde how gud Josephe
On this wise wepite Cristes dethe.
On this wise wepite Cristes dethe.
JOSEPHE.
Alesse, that euer I levit thus longe!
This day to se so grete wronge!
So felle cruellitee and paynes stronge
Were neuer seyn or this.
Such envy, such rancor, such malesse!
And of cruelle tormentes such excesse!
O Pilate, Pilate, in thy palesse,
He that neuer did amysse
This day to se so grete wronge!
So felle cruellitee and paynes stronge
Were neuer seyn or this.
Such envy, such rancor, such malesse!
And of cruelle tormentes such excesse!
O Pilate, Pilate, in thy palesse,
He that neuer did amysse
This day was dampnyt! O innocent bloode,
Most of vertue, most graciose and gude,
This day stremyt owt lik a floode,
And lyk a ryvere grete,
On Caluery Mownt, on lenghe and brede.
O Caluery! Thy greyn colore is turnyd to rede
By a blessit lammes bloode, which now is dede.
Alese! For faynt I swete,
Most of vertue, most graciose and gude,
This day stremyt owt lik a floode,
And lyk a ryvere grete,
On Caluery Mownt, on lenghe and brede.
O Caluery! Thy greyn colore is turnyd to rede
By a blessit lammes bloode, which now is dede.
Alese! For faynt I swete,
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Remembringe that so cleyne on innocent shuld dye,
Which ledd his life the most perfitlye,
And wrought sich warkes wonderoslye,
Ose Judea can recorde.
What mortalle creature that powre myght haue
To make a dede man rise owt of his graue,
Lyinge therin iiij dayes tayve,
But God, the gretist lorde?
Which ledd his life the most perfitlye,
And wrought sich warkes wonderoslye,
Ose Judea can recorde.
What mortalle creature that powre myght haue
To make a dede man rise owt of his graue,
Lyinge therin iiij dayes tayve,
But God, the gretist lorde?
A man to haue his sight, born starke blinde,
From Adams creation where shalle we fynde?
Or what prophettes can ye calle to mynde
Of whom may be verryfyed
So grete a miracle aboue naturs righte?
To many othere blind men he gaue the sighte
And wrought many wounders by Godly myghte,
As it is welle certifiede.
From Adams creation where shalle we fynde?
Or what prophettes can ye calle to mynde
Of whom may be verryfyed
So grete a miracle aboue naturs righte?
To many othere blind men he gaue the sighte
And wrought many wounders by Godly myghte,
As it is welle certifiede.
From the hylle I com bot now down,
Wher I left the holy women in dedly swoun.
O ye pepulle of this cetye and of this town,
Herd ye not the exclamation
And the grete brunte which was on the h[i]lle:
‘Crucyfy hym! Crucify hym! Slo hym and kille!’?
Peace! Now harkyn, I pray you, stand stille!
Me think I here lamentation.
Wher I left the holy women in dedly swoun.
O ye pepulle of this cetye and of this town,
Herd ye not the exclamation
And the grete brunte which was on the h[i]lle:
‘Crucyfy hym! Crucify hym! Slo hym and kille!’?
Peace! Now harkyn, I pray you, stand stille!
Me think I here lamentation.
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