Part 19
_Johannes._ Alle ȝour desyre xal be wrought, With herty wylle I werke ȝour thought; Now, blyssyd mayde, taryeth nowth, In the temple that ȝe ware! ffor holy prayere may chaunge ȝour mood, And cawse ȝour chere to be more good; Whan ȝe se notȝ ȝour childys blood, The lasse may be ȝour care!
_Tunc transiet Maria ad templum cum Johanne, etc._
_Maria._ Here in this temple my lyff I lede, And serve my lord God with hertyly drede, — Now xal wepynge me fode and fede, Some comforte tylle God sende. A! my lord God, I the pray, Whan my childe ryseth the iij.ᵈᵉ day, Comforte thanne thyn hand-may, My care for to amende!
XXXIII. THE DESCENT INTO HELL.
_Anima Christi._ Now alle mankende, in herte be glad, Withe alle merthis that may be had, ffor mannys sowle that was be-stad In the logge of helle. Now xal I ryse to lyve agayn, From peyn to pleys of paradyse pleyn; Therfore, man, in hert be fayn. In merthe now xalt thou dwelle!
I am the sowle of Cryst Jhesu, The whiche is kynge of alle vertu; My body is ded, the Jewys it slew, That hangyth ȝitt on the rode! Rent and torn, al blody red, ffor mannys sake my body is deed, ffor mannys helpe my body is bred, And sowle drynke my bodyes blode.
Thow my body be now sclayn, The thrydde day, this is certayn, I xal reyse my body agayn, To lyve as I ȝow say! Now wole I go streyth to helle, And feche ffrom the fendys felle, Alle my frendys that therin dwelle, To blysse that lestyth ay.
_The sowle goth to helle gatys and seyth, “Attollite portas, principes, vestras, et elevamini, portæ eternales, et introibit Rex Gloriæ.”_
Ondothe ȝoure ȝatys of sorwatorie! On mannys sowle I have memorie, Here comyth now the kynge of glorye, These gates for to breke! ȝe develys that am here withinne, Helle gatys ȝe xal unpynne, I xal delyvere mannys kynne, — ffrom wo I wole hem wreke!
_Belyalle._ Alas! alas! out and harrow! Onto thi byddynge must we bow, That thou art God now do we know, Of the had we grett dowte. Aȝens the may no thynge stonde, Alle thynge obeyth to thyn honde, Bothe hevyn and helle, watyr and londe, — Alle thynge must to the lowte.
_Anima Cristi._ Aȝens me it were but wast To holdyn or to stondyn fast; Helle logge may not last Aȝens the kynge of glorye. Thi derke dore down I throwe, My fayr ffrendys now wele I knowe, I xal hem brynge reknyd be rowe Out of here purcatorye!
XXXIV. THE BURIAL OF CHRIST.
_Centurio._ In trewthe now I knowe with ful opyn syght, That Goddys dere sone is naylid on tre! These wundyrful tokenys aprevyn ful ryght Quod vere filius Dei erat iste!
_Alius miles (2)._ The very child of God I suppose that he be, And so it semyth wele be his wundyrful werk! The erthe sore qwakyth, and that agresyth me, With myst and grett wedyr it is woundyr dyrk!
_Alius Miles (3)._ Soche merveylis shewe may non erthely man, The eyr is ryght derke, that fyrst was ryght clere; The erthe-qwave is grett, the clowdys waxe whan, These tokenys preve hym a lord without any pere!
_Centurio._ His fadyr is pereles kyng of most empere, Bothe lorde of this world and kynge of hevyn hyȝe; ȝitt out of alle synne to brynge us owt of daungere, He soferyth his dere sone for us alle to dye.
_Nichodemus._ Alas! alas! what syght is this? To se the lorde and kynge of blys, That nevyr synnyd ne dede amys, Thus naylid upon a rode! Alas! ȝewys, what have ȝe wrought? A! ȝe wyckyd wytys, what was ȝour thought? Why have ȝe bobbyd and thus betyn owth Alle his blyssyd blood?
_Senturyo._ A! now trewly telle weyl I kan, That this was Goddys owyn sone! I knowe he is both God and man, Be this wark that here is done!
Ther was nevyr man but God that cowde make this werk, That evyr was of woman born! Were he nevyr so gret a clerk, It passeth hem alle, thow thei had sworn!
Hese lawe was trewe, I dare wel saye, That he tawth us here amonge! Therfore I rede ȝe turne ȝour faye, And amende that ȝe han do wronge!
_Joseph of Aram._ O! good Lord Jhesu, that deyst now here on rode, Have mercy on me and forgyf me mys! I wold the worchep here with my good, That I may come to thi blysse!
To Pylat now wool I goon, And aske the body of my Lord Jhesu; To bery that now wold I soon, In my grave that is so new.
Heyl! sere Pylat, that syttyth in sete! Heyl! justyce of Jewys men do the calle! Heyl! with helthe I do the grete, I pray the of a bone what so befalle.
To bery Jhesuis body I wole the pray, That he were out of mennys syth; ffor to morwyn xal be oure holyday, Than wole no man hym bery, I the plyth.
And yf we lete hym hange ther stylle, Some wolde seyn therof anow; The pepyl therof wold seyn ful ylle, That nother xuld be ȝour worchep nor prow.
_Pylat._ Sere Joseph of Baramathie, I graunt the With Jhesuis body do thin intent; But fyrst I wole wete that he ded be, As it was his jugement!
Sere knytys, I comawnd ȝow that ȝe go In hast with Josepht of Baramathie; And loke ȝe take good hede therto, That Jhesu suerly ded be.
Se that this comawndement ȝe fulfylle, Without wordys ony mo; And than lete Joseph do his wylle, What that he wyl with Jhesu do.
_Here come to knytes beforn Pylat at onys, thus seyng_,
_Primus Miles._ Sere, we xal do oure dylygens, With Joseph goyng to Calvarye; Be we out of thi presens, Sone the trewthe we xal aspye.
_Joseph._ Gramercy, Pylat, of ȝour jentylnesse, That ȝe ban grawntyd me my lyst; Any thyng in my province ȝe xal have at ȝour resquest.
_Pylat._ Sere, alle ȝour lest ȝe xal have, With Jhesuis body do ȝour intent; Whethyr ȝe bery hym in pyt or grave, The powere I grawnt ȝow here present.
_The ij. knygtes go with Joseph to Jhesus, and stande and heldyn hym in the face_,
_Secundus miles._ Me thynkyth Jhesu is sewre anow,— It is no ned his bonys to breke: He is ded, how thinkyth ȝow? He xal nevyr go nor speke.
_Primus miles._ We wyl be sure or than we go, Of a thyng I am bethowth; ȝondyr is a blynd knyth I xal go to, And sone awhyle here xal be wrowth.
_Here the knyth goth to blynde Longeys, and seyth_,
Heyl, sere Longeys, thou gentyl knyth! The I prey now ryth hertyly; That thou wylt wend with me ful wyth, It xal be for thi prow veryly. _Longeus._ Sere, at ȝour comawndement with ȝow wyl I wende, In what place ȝe wyl me have; For I trost ȝe be my frend; Lede me forth, sere, oure sabath ȝou save!
_Primus miles._ Lo! sere Longeys, here is a spere! Bothe long, and brood, and sharp anow; Heve it up fast that it wore there, ffor here is game:— show, man, show.
_Here Longeys showyth the spere warly, and the blood comyth rennyng to his hand, and he avantoresly xal wype his eyn._
_Longeus._ O good Lord! how may this be, That I may se so bryth now? This thretty wyntyr I myth not se, And now I may se I wote nevyr how! But ho is this that hangyth here now? I trowe it be the mayndonys sone; And that he is now I knowe wel how, The Jewys to hym this velany han don!
_Here he ffallyth downe on his knes._
Now, good Lord, fforgyf me that, That I to the now don have; For I dede I wyst not what,— The Jewys of myn ignorans dede me rave. Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! I crye.
_Than Joseph doth set up the lederes and Nychodemus comyth to help hym._
_Nicodemus._ Joseph ab Aramathy, blyssyd thou be! ffor thou dost a fol good dede; I prey the lete me help the, That I may be partenere of thi mede.
_Joseph._ Nychodemus, welcome indede! I pray ȝow ȝe wole help therto; He wole aqwyte us ryth wele oure mede, And I have lysens for to do.
_Here Joseph and Nychodemus takyn Cryst of the cros, on on o ledyr and the tother on another leddyr; and qwhan is had down, Joseph leyth hym in our Ladys lappe, seyng the knytes turnyng hem, and Joseph seyth_,
_Joseph._ Lo! Mary modyr, good and trewe, Here is thi son, blody and bloo! ffor hym myn hert ful sore doth rewe, Kysse hym now onys eer he go!
_Maria Virgo._ A, mercy! mercy! myn owyn sone so dere, Thi blody face now I must kysse! Thi face is pale, withowtyn chere! Of meche joy now xal I mysse! Ther was nevyr modyr that sey this, So her sone dyspoyled with so gret wo; And my dere chylde nevyr dede amys,— A, mercy! fadyr of hefne, it xulde be so!
_Joseph._ Mary, ȝour sone ȝe take to me; Into his grave it xal be browth.
_Maria._ Joseph, blyssyd ever mot thou be, For the good ded that ȝe han wrowth!
_Here thei xal leyn Cryst in his grave._
_Joseph._ I gyf the this syndony that I have bowth, To wynde the in whyl it is new. _Nichodemus._ Here is an onyment that I have browth, To anoynt withalle myn lord Jhesu.
_Joseph._ Now Jhesu is withinne his grave, Wheche I ordeyn somtyme for me; On the, Lord, I vowche it save, I knowe my mede ful gret xal be.
_Nichodemus._ Now lete us leyn on this ston ageyn, And Jhesu in this tombe stylle xal be; And we wyl walke hom ful pleyn,— The day passyth fast I se. Farewel, Joseph, and wel ȝe be; No lengere teryeng here we make.
_Joseph._ Sere, almythy God be with the, Into his blysse he mote ȝou take!
_Maria._ ffarewel, ȝe jentyl princes kende, In joye evyr mote ȝe be! The blisse of hefne withowtyn ende I knowe veryly that ȝe xal se.
_Here the princes xal do reverens to oure Lady, and gon here way, and leve the Maryes at the sepulchre._
XXXV. THE RESURRECTION.
_Cayphas goth to Pylat, seyng thus_,
_Cayphas._ Herk, sere Pylat, lyst to me! I xal the telle tydynges new; Of o thyng we must ware be, Or ellys hereafter we myth it rewe.
Thou wotyst weyl that Jhesu, He seyd to us with wordys pleyn, He seyd we xuld fynd it trew,— The thryd day he wold ryse ageyn. Yf that hese dyscyplys come serteyn, And out of his grave stele hym away, Thei wyl go preche and pleyn seyn That he is reson the thryd day.
This is the cowncel that I gyf here, Take men and gyf hem charge therto To weche the grave with gret power, Tyl the thryd day be go.
_Pylat._ Sere Cayphas, it xal be do, For, as ȝe say, ther is peryl in; And it happend that it were so, It myth make our lawys for to blyn. ȝe xal se, ser, er that ȝe go, How I xal this mater save, And what I xal sey therto, And what charge thei xal have.
Come forth, ȝe ser Amorawnt, And ser Arphaxat; com ner also Ser Cosdram, and ser Affraunt, And here the charge that ȝe must do. Seres, to Jhesuis grave ȝe xal go, Tyl that the thryd day be gon; And lete nother frend nor fo, In no wey to towche the ston.
Yf ony of hese dyscipelys come ther To feche the body fro ȝou away, Bete hym down, have ȝe no fere, With shamful deth do hym day. In payn of ȝour godys and ȝour lyvys, That ȝe lete hem nowth shape ȝou fro, And of ȝour chyldere and ȝour wyfys, For al ȝe lese, and ȝe do so.
_Primus miles._ Sere Pylat, we xal not ses We xal kepe it strong anow. _Secundus miles._ ȝa, and an hunderyd put hem in pres, Thei xal dey, I make a vow. _Tertius miles._ And han hunderyd! fy on an c. and an c. therto! Ther is non of hem xal us withstonde. _Quartus miles._ ȝa, and ther com an hunderyd thowsand and mo, I xal hem kylle with myn honde.
_Pylat._ Wel, seres, than ȝour part ȝe do, And to ȝour charge loke ȝe take hede, Withowtyn wordys ony mo, Wysly now that ȝe precede.
_Here the knytes gon out of the place._
Lo! Ser Cayphas, how thynkyth ȝow? Is not this wel browth abowth? _Cayphas._ In feyth, ser, it is sure anow, Hardely have ȝe no dowth.
_Arfaxat._ Let se, ser Amaraunt, where wele ȝe be? Wole ȝe kepe the feet or the hed? _Ameraunt._ At the hed, so mote I the, And ho so come here he is but dead. _Arfaxat._ And I wole kepe the feet this tyde, Thow ther come both Jakke and Gylle. _Cosdram._ And I xal kepe the ryth syde, And ho so come I xal hym kylle.
_Affraunt._ And I wole on the lefte hand ben, And ho so come here, he xal nevyr then; fful sekyrly his bane xal I ben, With dyntys of dowte. Syr Pylat, have good day! We xul kepyn the body in clay, And we xul wakyn wele the way, And wayten alle abowte.
_Pylatus._ Now, jentyl seres, wole ȝe vowchesaffe To go with me and sele the graffe, That he ne ryse out of the grave, That is now ded? _Cayphas._ We graunte, wel lete us now go: Whan it is selyd and kepte also, Than be we sekyr withowtyn wo, And have of hym no dred.
_Tunc ibunt ad sepulcrum Pilatus, Cayphas, Annas, et omnes milites, et dicunt._
_Annas._ Loo! here is wax fful redy dyght, Sett on ȝour sele anon ful ryght, Than be ȝe sekyr, I ȝow plyght— He xal not rysyn ageyn. _Pilatus._ On this corner my seal xal sytt, And with this wax I sele this pytt; Now dare I ley he xal nevyr flytt Out of this grave serteayn.
_Annas._ Here is more wax fful redy, loo! Alle the corneres ȝe sele also, And with a lokke loke it too,— Than lete us gon oure way. And lete these knytes abydyn therby, And yf hese dysciplys com prevyly To stele awey this ded body, To us they hem brynge without delay.
_Pilatus._ On every corner now is sett my seale, Now is myn herte in welthe and wele, This may no brybour awey now stele This body from undyr ston. Now, syr buschopp, I pray to the, And Annas also, com on with me, Evyn togedyr alle we thre Homward the wey we gon.
As wynde wrothe, Knyghtes, now goht, Clappyd in clothe, And kepyth hym welle. Loke ȝe be bolde With me for to holde, ȝe xul have gold, And helme of stele.
_Pylat, Annas, and Cayphas go to ther skaffaldys, and the knyghtes seyn_,
_Affraunt._ Now in this grownde He lyth bounde, That tholyd wounde, ffor he was ffals. This lefft cornere I wyl kepe here, Armyd clere, Bothe hed and hals.
_Cosdran._ I wyl have this syde, What so betyde; If any man ryde To stele the cors, I xal hym chyde With woundys wyde, Amonge hem glyde With fyne fors.
_Ameraunt._ The hed I take, Hereby to wake; A stele stake I holde in honde, Maystryes to make, Crownys i-crake, Schafftys to shake, And schapyn schonde.
_Arfaxat._ I xal not lete To kepe the fete, They ar ful wete, Walterid in blood. He that wylle stalke, Be brook or balke, Hedyr to walke, Tho wrecchis be wood.
_Primus miles._ Myn heed dullyth, Myn herte ffullyth Of sslepp. Seynt Mahownd, This beryenge grownd Thou kepp!
_Secundus miles._ I sey the same, ffor any blame I falle. Mahownd whelpe, Aftyr thin helpe I calle!
_Tertius miles._ I am hevy as leed, ffor any dred I slepe. Mahownd of myght, This ston to nyght Thou kepe!
_Quartus miles._ I have no foot To stonde on root By brynke. Here I aske To go to taske A wynke.
_Tunc dormyent milites; et veniet Anima Christi de inferno, cum Adam et Eva, Abraham, John Baptist, et aliis._
_Anima Christi._ Come forthe, Adam, and Eve with the, And alle my frendys that here in be; To Paradys come forthe with me, In blysse for to dwelle! The fende of helle, that is ȝour ffoo, He xal be wrappyd and woundyn in woo; ffro wo to welthe now xul ȝe go, With myrthe evyrmore to melle.
_Adam._ I thanke the, Lord, of thi grett grace, That now is forȝovyn my grett trespace; Now xal we dwellyn in blysful place, In joye and endeles myrthe. Thorwe my synne man was fforlorn, And man to save thou wore alle torn, And of a mayd in Bedlem born, That evyr blyssyd be thi byrthe!
_Eva._ Blyssyd be thou, Lord of lyff! I am Eve, Adamis wyff; Thou hast soferyd strok and stryff, ffor werkys that we wrought. Thi mylde mercy haht alle forȝevyn, Dethis dentys on the were drevyn, Now with the, Lord, we xul levyn,— Thi bryght blood hath us bowthe.
_Johannes Baptista._ I am thi cosyn, my name is John; Thi woundys hath betyn the to the bon; I babtyȝid the in flom Jordon, And ȝaff thi body baptyȝe. With thi grace now xul we gon ffrom oure enmyes everychon, And fyndyn myrthis many on, In pley of paradyse.
_Abraham._ I am Abraham, fadyr trowe, That reyned after Noes flowe; A sory synne Adam gan sowe, That clad us alle in care. A sone that maydenys mylk hath sokyn, And with his blood oure bonde hath brokyn, Helle logge lyth unlokyn, ffro fylthe with frende we fare.
_Anima Christi._ ffayre ffrendys, now be ȝe wunne, On ȝow shyneth the sothfast sunne; The gost that alle grevaunce hath gunne, fful harde I xal hym bynde. As wyckyd werme thou gunne apere, To tray my chylderyn that were so dere, Therfore, traytour, hevermore here Newe peynes thou xalt evyr ffynde.
Thorwe blood I took of mannys kynde, ffals devyl, I here the bynde, In endles sorwe I the wynde, Therin evyrmore to dwelle. Now thou art bownde, thou mayst not fle, ffor thin envyous cruelté In endeles dampnacian xalt thou be, And nevyr comyn out of helle.
_Belialle._ Alas! herrow! now am I bownde, In helle gonge to ly on grounde, In hendles sorwe now am I wounde, In care evyr more to dwelle. In helle logge I lyȝ alone, Now is my joye awey al gone, ffor alle fendys xul be my fone, I xal nevyr com from helle.
_Anima Christi._ Now is ȝour ffoo boundyn in helle, That evyr was besy ȝow for to qwelle; Now wele I rysyn fflesche and ffelle, that rent was for ȝour sake. Myn owyn body that hynge on rode, And be the Jewys nevyr so wode, It xal aryse bothe flesche and blode; My body now wyl I take.
_Tunc transiet anima Christi ad resuscitandum corpus, quo resuscitato, dicat Jhesus_,
_Jhesus._ Harde gatys have I gon, And peynes sofryd many on, Stomblyd at stake and at ston, Nyȝ thre and thretty ȝere. I lyght out of my faderes trone, ffor to amende mannys mone; My flesche was betyn to the bon, My blood i-bledde clere.
ffor mannys love I tholyd dede, And for mannys love I am rysyn up rede, ffor man I have mad my body in brede, His sowle for to fede. Man, and thou lete meyns gone, And wylt not folwyn me anone, Suche a frende fyndyst thou nevyr none, To help the at thi nede.
Salve, sancta parens! my modyr dere! Alle heyl, modyr, with glad chere! ffor now is aresyn, with body clere, Thi sone that was delve depe. This is the thrydde day that I ȝow tolde, I xuld arysyn out of the cley so colde,— Now am I here with brest ful bolde, Therfore no more ȝe wepe.
_Maria._ Welcom, my Lord! welcom, my grace! Welcome, my sone, and my solace! I xal the wurchep in every place, — Welcom, Lord God of myght! Mekel sorwe in hert I leed, Whan thou were leyd in dethis beed, But now my blysse is newly breed,— Alle men may joye this syght.
_Jhesus._ Alle this werlde that was forlorn, Shal wurchepe ȝou bothe evyn and morn, ffor had I not of ȝow be born, Man had be lost in helle. I was deed, and lyff I have, And thorwe my dethe man do I save, ffor now I am resyn out of my grave, In hevyn man xal now dwelle.
_Maria._ A, dere sone! these wurdys ben goode, Thou hast wel comfortyd my mornyng moode Blyssyd be thi precyous bloode, That mankende thus doth save! _Jhesus._ Now, dere modyr, my leve I take; Joye in hert and myrthe ȝe make, ffor dethe is deed and lyff dothe wake, Now I am resyn fro my grave!
_Maria._ ffarewel, my sone! farewel, my childe! ffarewel, my Lorde! my God so mylde! Myn hert is wele that ffyrst was whylde; ffarewel, myn owyn dere love! Now alle mankynde bethe glad with gle, ffor deth is deed, as ȝe may se, And lyff is reysed endles to be In hevyn dwellynge above!
Whan my sone was nayled on tre, Alle women myght rewe with me, ffor grettere sorwe myght nevyr non be, Than I dede suffyr i-wys. But this joy now passyth alle sorwe, That my childe suffryd in that hard morwe, ffor now he is oure alderers borwe, To brynge us alle to blys.
_Tunc evigilabunt milites sepulcri, et dicet primus miles_,
Awake! awake! Hillis gyn quake, And tres ben shake Ful nere a too. Stonys clevyd, Wyttys ben revid, Erys ben devid, I am servid soo.
_Secundus miles._ He is aresyn, this is no nay, That was deed and colde in clay, — Now is he resyn belyve this day, Grett woundyr it is to me. He is resyn by his owyn myght, And fforthe he gothe his wey ful ryght; How xul we now us qwytte, Whan Pylat doth us se?
_Tertius miles._ Lete us now go Pilat ontoo, And ryght evyn so, As we have sayn, The trewthe we say, That out of clay, He is resyn this day That Jewys han slayn.
_Quartus miles._ I holde it best, Lete us nevyr rest, But go we prest That it were done. Alle heyl, Pilatt In thin astat! He is resyn up latt, That thou gast dome.
_Pilat._ What! what! what! what! Out upon the, why seyst thou that? ffy upon the, harlat, How darst thou so say? Thou dost myn herte ryght grett greff! Thou lyest upon hym, fals theff; How xulde he rysyn ageyn to lyff, That lay deed in clay?
_Primus miles._ ȝa, thow thou be nevyr so wrothe, And of these tydandys nevyr so lothe, ȝitt goodly on ground on lyve he gothe, Qwycke and levynge man. Yff thou haddyst a ben ther we ware, In hert thou xuldyst han had gret care, And of blysse a ben ryght bare, Of colore bothe pale and whan.
_Pilatus._ Or ȝe come there, ȝe dede alle swere, To fyght in fere, And bete and bynde. Alle this was trayn, ȝour wurdes wore vayn, This is sertayn, ȝow fals I fynde.
_Secundus miles._ Be the dethe the devyl deyd, We were of hym so sore atreyd, That ffor ffer we us down leyd Ryght evyn upon oure syde. Whan we were leyd upon the grounde, Stylle we lay as we had be bounde, We durst not ryse for a thousand pounde, Ne not for alle this worlde so wyde.
_Pilatus._ Now ffy upon ȝour grett bost! Alle ȝour wurchep is now lost; In felde, in town, and in every cost, Men may ȝow dyspravyn. Now alle ȝour wurchep it is lorn, And every man may ȝow we scorn, And bydde ȝow go syttyn in the corn, And chare awey the ravyn.
_Tertius miles._ ȝa, it was hyȝ tyme to leyn oure bost, ffor whan the body toke aȝen the gost, He wold a frayd many an ost, Kynge, knyght, and knave. ȝa, whan he dede ryse out of his lake, Than was ther suche an erthe-quake, That alle the worlde it gan to shake, That made us ffor to rave.
_Quartus miles._ ȝa, ȝa, herke, ffelawys, what I xal say; Late us not ses be nyght nor day, But telle the trewthe, ryght as it lay, In countré where we goo. And than I dare ley myn heed, That thei that Crystes lawys leed, They wyl nevyr ses tyl they be deed, His dethe that brought hym too.