Part 20
_Primus miles._ Be Belyalle, this was now wele ment; To this cowncelle lete us consent, Lett us go tellyn with on assent, He is resyn up this day. _Secundus miles._ I grawnt therto, and that forthe right, That he is resyn by his owyn myght, ffor ther cam non, be day nor nyght, To helpe hym owte of clay.
_Pilatus._ Now, jentyl seres, I yray ȝow alle Abyde stylle a lytyl thralle, Whylle that I myn cowncell calle, And here of ther councelle. _Primus miles._ Syr, att ȝour prayour we wyl abyde Here in this place a lytel tyde, But tary not to longe, ffor we must ryde, — We may not longe dwelle.
_Pilatus._ Now, jentyl seres, I pray ȝow here, Sum good cowncel me to lere. ffor sertes, seres, without dwere, We stounde in ryght grett dowte. _Cayphas._ Now trewly, sere, I ȝow telle, This matere is bothe ffers and ffelle, Combros it is therwith to melle, And evyl to be browth abowte.
_Annas._ Syr Pylat, thou grett justyse, Thow thou be of wittys wyse, ȝit herke fful sadly with good devyse, What that thou xalt do. I counsel the, be my reed, This wundyrful tale pray hem to hede, And upon this ȝeve hem good mede, Bothe golde and sylver also.
And, sere, I xalle telle ȝow why, In ȝoure erys prevyly, Betweyn us thre serteynly, Now herk, seres, in ȝour erys!
_Hic faciant Pilatus, Cayphas, et Annas, privatim inter se, consilium; quo finito, dicat_,
_Annas._ ffor mede dothe most in every qwest, And mede is mayster, bothe est and west, Now trewly, seres, I held this best, With mede men may bynde berys.
_Cayphas._ Sekyr, sere, this counselle is good; Pray these knyghtes to chaunge ther mood; ȝeve then golde, ffeste, and ffood, And that may chaunge ther wytt. _Pylatt._ Seres, ȝoure good councel I xalle fulfylle: Now, jentyl knyhtes, come hedyr me tylle, I yray ȝow, seres, of ȝour good wylle, No ferther that ȝe fflytt.
Jentyl knyhtes, I ȝow pray, A bettyr sawe that ȝe say; Sey ther he was cawth away With his dyscyplis be nyght. Sey he was with his dyscyplis ffett, I wolde ȝe worn in ȝour sadelys ssett, And have here gold in a purs knett, And to Rome rydyth ryght.
_Quartus miles._ Now, Syr Pylatt, We gon oure gatt, We wylle not prate No lengere now. Now we have golde, No talys xul be tolde To whithtes on wolde, We make the a vow.
_Pilatus._ Now, ȝe men of mythe, As ȝe han hyght, Evyn so forthe ryght, ȝoure wurdys not falle. And ȝe xul gon With me anon, Alle everychon Into myn halle.
_Primus miles._ Now hens we go As lyth as ro; And ryght evyn so As we han seyd, We xul kepe counsel, Where so evyr we dwelle We xul no talys telle, — Be not dysmayd.
XXXVI. THE THREE MARIES.
_Hic venient ad sepulcrum Maria Magdalene, Maria Jacobi, et Maria Solomæ; et dicit Maria Magdalene_,
Swete systeryn, I ȝow beseche, Heryght now my specyal speche; Go we with salvys ffor to leche Cryst that tholyd wounde. He hath us wonnyn owt of wreche; The ryght wey God wyl us teche ffor to seke my lorde, my leche, His blood hath me unbownde.
vij. devyls in me were pyght: My love, my lord, my God Almyght, Awey he weryd tho ffyndys wight With his wyse wurde. He droff fro me the fendes lees, In myn swete sowle his chawmere I ches, In me belevyth the lorde of pes, I go to his burryenge boorde.
_Maria Jacobi._ My systeres sone I woot he was, He lyth in here as sunne in glas, The chylde was born by oxe and asse Up in a bestys stalle. Thow his body be gravyd undyr gras, The grete godhede is nevyr the lasse, The Lord xal rysyn and gon his pas, And comfortyn his ffrendys alle.
_Maria Salomæ._ My name is Mary Salome, His modyr and I systeres we be, Annys dowteres we be alle thre,— Jhesu, we be thin awntys. The naylis gun his lemys feyn, And the spere gan punche and peyn, Ontho woundys we wold have eyn, That grace now God graunt us.
_Maria Magdalene._ Now go we stylle, With good wylle, Ther he is leyd. He deyd on crowche, We wolde hym towche, As we han seyd.
_Tunc respicit Maria Magdalene in sepulcro, dicens_,
Where is my Lord that was here, That for me bledde bowndyn in brere? His body was beryed rygh by this mere, That ffor me gan deye. The Jewys, ffekylle and ffals ffownde, Where have thei do the body with wounde? He lythe not upon this grownde, The body is don aweye.
_Maria Jacobi._ To my Lorde, my love, my ffrende, ffayn wolde I salve a spende, And I myght aught amende His woundys depe and wyde. To my lorde I owe lowlyté, Bothe homage and fewté I wolde with my dewté A softyd hand and syde.
_Maria Salome._ To myghtfful God omnypotent, I bere a boyst of oynement; I wold han softyd his sore dent, His sydys al abowte. Lombe of Love withowt lothe, I ffynde the not, myn hert is wroth, In the sepulcre ther lyth a cloth, And jentyl Jhesu is owte.
_Angelus._ Wendyth fforthe, ȝe women thre, Into the strete of Galylé; ȝour Savyour ther xul ȝe se Walkynge in the waye. ȝour ffleschely lorde now hath lyff, That deyd on tre with strook and stryff; Wende fforthe, thou wepynge wyff, And seke hym, I the saye.
Now, gothe fforthe ffast alle thre To his dyscyplys ffayr and fre, And to Petyr the trewthe telle ȝe,— Therof have ȝe no dreed. Spare ȝe not the soth to say, He that was deed and closyd in clay, He is resyn this same day, And levyth with woundys reed.
_Maria Magdalen._ A, myrthe and joye in herte we have! ffor now is resyn out of his grave, He levyth now oure lyf to save, That dede lay in the clay. _Maria Jacoby._ In hert I was ryght sore dysmayd, The aungel to us whan that he sayd That Cryst is resyn; I was affrayd The aungel whan I say.
_Maria Salome._ Now lete us alle thre fulfylle The angelys wurde and Goddys wylle, Lett us sey, with voys wul shrylle, Cryst that Jewys dede sle, Oure Lord that naylyd was on the rode, And betyn out was his bodyes blode, He is aresyn, thoughe they ben wode; A, Lorde! ȝitt wele thou be!
_Maria Magdalene dicit Petro et cæteris apostolis_,
Bretheryn alle, in herte be glad, Bothe blythe and joyful in herte ful fayn, ffor ryght good tydandys have we had That oure Lord is resyn agayn! An aungel bade us ryght thus sertayn, To the, Petyr, that we xulde telle, How Cryst is resyn, the whiche was slayn, A lovynge man evyr more to dwelle.
_Maria Jacobi._ To lyve is resyn ageyn that Lorde, The qwyche Judas to Jewys solde; Of this I bere ryght trewe recorde, By wurdys that the aungel tolde. Now myrthe and joye to man on molde! Every man now myrthe may have! He that was closyd in cley ful colde This day is resyn owt of his grave!
_Petrus._ Sey me, systeryn, with wurdys blythe, May I troste to that ȝe say? Is Cryst resyn ageyn to lyve, That was ded and colde in clay? _Maria Salome._ ȝa, trostythe us truly, it is no nay; He is aresyn, it is no les; And so an aungel us tolde this day, With opyn voys and speche expres.
_Johannes._ ȝa, these be tydynges of ryght gret blys, That oure mayster resyn xulde be; I wyl go renne in hast i-wys, And loke my Lord yf I may se. _Petrus._ ffor joye also I renne with the, My brother John, as I the say; In hast anon evyn forthe go we,— To his grave we renne oure way.
_Hic currunt Johannes et Petrus simul ad sepulcrum; et Johannes prius venit ad monumentum, sed non intrat._
_Johannes._ The same shete here I se That Crystys body was in wounde; But he is gon, where so ever he be, He lyth not here upon this grownde.
_Petrus intrat monumentum, et dicit Petrus_,
In this cornere the shete is fownde, And here we fynde the sudary In the whiche his hed was wounde, Whan he was take from Calvary.
_Hic intrat Johannes monumentum, dicens_,
The same sudary and the same shete, Here with my syth I se bothe tweyn; Now may I wele knowe and wete, That he is rysyn to lyve ageyn. Onto oure bretheryn lete us go seyn The trewthe ryght hevyn as it is; Oure mayster lyvythe, the wheche was slayn, Allemyghty Lorde and kynge of blys.
_Petrus._ No lengere here wylle we dwelle, To oure bretheryn the wey we take; The trewthe to them whan that we telle, Grett joye in hert than wul thei make.
_Hic Petrus loquitur omnibus apostolis simul collectis._
Bethe mery, bretheryn, for Crystys sake,— That man that is oure mayster so good, ffrom deth to lyve he is awake, That sore was rent upon the rood.
_Johannes._ As women seyd so have we fownde, Remevyd awey we saw the ston; He lyth no lengere undyr the grownde, Out of his grave oure mayster is gon.
_Omnes congregatus Thomas._
We have grett woundyr everychon Of these wurdys that ȝe do speke; A ston ful hevy lay hym upon, ffrom undyr that ston how xuld he breke?
_Petrus._ The trewthe to tellyn it passyth oure witt, Wethyr he be resyn thorwe his owyn myght, Or ellys stolyn out of his pitt Be sum man prevely be nyght. That he is gon we saw with syght, ffor in his grave he is nowth; We cannot tellyn in what plyght, Out of his grave that he is browth.
XXXVII. CHRIST APPEARING TO MARY.
_Maria Magdalene goth to the grave, and wepyth, and seyth_,
ffor hertyly sorwe myn herte dothe breke, With wepynge terys I wasche my face; Alas! ffor sorwe I may not speke, My Lorde is gon that hereinne wase: Myn owyn dere Lorde and kynge of gras, That vij. develys ffro me dyd take, I kan nat se hym, alas! alas! He is stolyn awey owt of this lake.
_Aungelus._ Woman, that stondyst here alone? Why dost thou wepe, and morne, and wepe so sore? What cawse hast thou to make suche mone? Why makyst thou suche sorwe, and wherefore? _Maria Magdalene._ I have gret cawse to wepe evyrmore; My Lord is take out of his grave, Stolyn awey and fro me lore, I kannot wete where hym to have.
_Hic parum deambulet a sepulcro, dicens_,
Alas! alas! what xal I do? My Lord awey is fro me take; A, woful wrecche! whedyr xal I go? My joye is gon owth of this lake. _Jhesus._ Woman, suche mornynge why dost thou make? Why is thi chere so hevy and badde? Why dost thou sythe so sore and qwake? Why dost thou wepe so sore and sadde?
_Maria Magdalene._ A grettyr cawse had nevyr woman, ffor to wepe bothe nyth and day, Than I myself have in serteyn, And for to sorwyn evyr and ay. Alas! ffor sorwe myn hert doth blede, My Lorde is take fro me away; I muste nedys sore wepe and grede; Where he is put I kan not say.
But, jentyl gardener, I pray to the, If thou hym took out of his grave, Telle me qwere I may hym se, That I may go my Lorde to have. _Jhesus._ MARIA. _Maria Magdalene._ A! mayster and Lorde to the I crave, As thou art Lord and kynge of blys! [_Spectans._ Graunt me, Lord, and thou vowchesave Thyn holy ffete that I may kys!
_Jhesus._ Towche me nott as ȝett, Mary, ffor to my fadyr I have not ascende; But to my bretheryn in hast the hyȝ, With these gode wurdys here care amende. Sey to my bretheryn that I intende To stey to my fadyr and to ȝowre, To oure Lord both God and frende, I wyl ascende to hevyn towre.
In hevyn to ordeyn ȝow a place, To my ffadyr now wyl I go; To merthe, and joye, and grett solace, And endeles blys to brynge ȝow to. ffor man I sufferyd both schame and wo, More spyteful deth nevyr man dyd take, ȝit wyl I ordeyn ffor al this, lo, In hevyn an halle for mannys sake!
_Maria Magdalyn._ Gracyous Lord, at ȝour byddyng, To alle my bretheryn I xal go telle How that ȝe be man levynge, Quyk and qwethynge of flesche and ffelle. Now alle hevynes I may expelle, And myrth and joy now take to me; My Lord that I have lovyd so wele, With opyn syght I dede hym se.
Whan I sowght my Lord in grave, I was fful sory and ryght sad; ffor syght of hym I myght non have, ffor mornynge sore I was nere mad. Grettere sorwe ȝit nevyr whithe had, Whan my Lord awey was gon, But now in herte I am so glad, So grett a joy nevyr wyff had non.
How myght I more gretter joye have, Than se that Lorde with opyn syght, The whiche my sowle from synne to save, ffrom develys sefne he mad me qwyght?
There kan no tounge my joye expres, Now I have seyn my Lorde on lyve; To my bretheryn I wyl me dresse, And telle to hem a non ryght belyve: With opyn speche I xal me shryve, And telle to hem, with wurdys pleyn How that Cryst ffrom deth to lyve, To endles blys is resyn ageyn.
Bretheryn, al blyth ȝe be, ffor joyful tydynges tellyn I kan; I saw oure Lorde Cryst, lyste wel to me, Of flesche and bon quyk levynge man. Beth glad and joyful, as for than, ffor trost me trewly it is ryght thus, Mowthe to mowthe, this is sertayn, I spak ryght now with Cryst Jhesus.
_Petrus._ A woundyrful tale forsothe is this: Ever onowryd oure Lorde mote be! We pray the, Lord, and kynge of blys, Onys thi presence that we may se! Ere thu ascende to thi magesté, Gracyous God, if that ȝe plese, Late us have sum syght of the, Oure careful hertes to sett in ease! _Amen!_
_Explicit apparicio Mariæ Magdalen._
XXXVIII. THE PILGRIM OF EMAUS.
_Hic incipit aparicio Cleophæ et Lucæ._
_Cleophas._ My brother, Lucas, I ȝow pray, Plesynge to ȝow if that it be, To the castel of Emawus, a lytyl way, That ȝe vowchesaf to go with me. _Lucas._ Alle redy, brother, I walke with the To ȝone castelle with ryght good chere; Evyn togedyr anon go we, Brother Cleophas, we to in fere.
_Cleophas._ A! brother Lucas! I am sore mevyd, Whan Cryst oure mayster comyth in my mynde; Whan that I thynke how he was grevyd, Joye in myn herte kan I non fynde; He was so lowlye, so good, so kynde, Holy of lyf, and meke of mood; Alas! the Jewys thei were to blynde, Hym for to kylle that was so good!
_Lucas._ Brothyr Cleophas, ȝe sey ful soth, They were to cursyd and to cruelle; And Judas that traytor, he was to lothe ffor golde and sylvyr his mayster to selle. The Jewys were redy hym for to qwelle, With skorgys bete out alle his blood; Alas! thei were to fers and ffelle; Shamfully thei henge hym on a rood!
_Cleophas._ ȝa, betwen to thevys, alas! for shame, They henge hym up with body rent; Alas! alas! they were to blame, To cursyd and cruel was ther intent. Whan for thurste he was nere shent, Eyȝil and galle thei ȝovyn hym to drynke; Alas! for ruthe his dethe thei bent In a ffowle place of horryble stynke!
_Lucas._ ȝa, and cawse in hym cowde they non fynde; Alas, for sorwe! what was here thought? And he dede helpe bothe lame and blynde, And alle seke men that were hym browght: Aȝens vice alwey he wrought, Synfulle dede wold he nevyr do, ȝit hym to kylle thei sparyd nought; Alas! alas! why dede they so?
_Jhesus._ Welle ovyrtake, ȝe serys in same, To walke in felachep with ȝow I pray. _Lucas._ Welcom, serys, in Goddys name! Of good felachep we sey not nay. _Jhesus._ Qwhat is ȝour langage, to me ȝe say, That ȝe have to-gedyr, ȝe to? Sory and evysum ȝe ben alway, ȝour myrthe is gon; why is it so?
_Cleophas._ Sere, me thynkyth thou art a pore pylgrym Here walkynge be thiselfe alone, And in the ceté of Jerusalem, Thou knowyst ryght lytyl what ther is done; ffor pylgrymys comyn and gon ryth sone, Ryght lytyl whyle pylgrymes do dwelle; In alle Jerusalem as thou hast gone, I trowe no tydynges that thou canst telle.
_Jhesus._ Why, in Jherusalem what thynge is wrought? What tydynges fro thens brynge ȝe? _Lucas._ A! ther have they slayn a man for nought; Gyltles he was, as we telle the; An holy prophete with God was he, Myghtyly in wurde and eke in dede; Of God he had ryght grett poosté, Amonge the pepyl his name gan sprede.
He hyght Jhesu of Naȝarethe, A man he was of ryght grett fame; The Jewys hym kylde with cruel dethe, Without trespas or any blame: Hym to scorne they had grett game, And naylid hym streyte ontylle a tre; Alas! alas! me thynkyth grett shame, Without cawse that this xulde be.
_Cleophas._ ȝa, sere, and ryght grett troste in hym we had, Alle Israel countré that he xuld save; The thrydde day is this that he was clad In coold cley and leyd in grave. ȝitt woundyrful tydynges of hym we have, Of women that sought hym beforn day-lythe; Wethyr they sey truthe or ellys do rave, We can not telle the trewe verdythe.
Whan Cryst in grave thei cowde not se, They comyn to us and evyn thus tolde, How that an aungelle seyd to them thre, That he xuld leve with brest fful bolde. ȝitt Petyr and John preve this wolde, To Crystys grave they ran, thei tweyne; And whan they come to the grave so coolde, They fownde the women fful trewe serteyne.
_Jhesus._ A! ȝe ffonnys and slought of herte ffor to beleve in holy Scrypture! Have not prophetys with wurdys smerte, Spoke be tokenys in signifure, That Cryste xuld deye ffor ȝour valure, And syth entre his joye and blys? Why be ȝe of herte so dure, And trust not in God that myghtful is?
Bothe Moyses and Aaron and othyr mo, In holy Scrypture ȝe may rede it, Of Crystis dethe thei spak also, And how he xuld ryse out of his pitt. Owt of ffeyth than why do ȝe fflitte, Whan holy prophetys ȝow teche so pleyne? Turne ȝour thought and chaunge ȝour witte, And truste wele that Cryst dothe leve ageyne.
_Lucas._ Leve ageyn! man, be in pes; How xulde a ded man evyr aryse? I cowncelle the suche wurdys to ses, ffor dowte of Pylat, that hyȝ justyce. He was slayn at the gre asyse, Be councelle of lordys many on; Of suche langage take bettyr avyse, In every company ther thou dost gon.
_Christus._ Trewthe dyd nevyr his maystyr shame; Why xulde I ses than trewth to say? Be Jonas the prophete I preve the same, That was in a whallys body iij. nyghtis and iij. day; So longe Cryst in his grave lay, As Jonas was withinne the se; His grave is brokyn that was of clay, To lyff resyn aȝen now is he.
_Cleophas._ Sey nott so, man, it may not be, Thow thyn exaumple be sumdele good; ffor Jonas on lyve evyr more was he, And Cryst was slayn upon a rood. The Jewys on hym they were so wood, That to his herte a spere they pyght, He bled owt alle his herte blood; How xulde the thanne ryse with myght?
_Christus._ Take hede at Aaron and his dede styk, Whiche was ded of his nature, And ȝit he floryschyd with flowres ful thyk, And bare almaundys of grett valure. The dede styk was signifure, Holy Cryst that shamfully was deed and slayn, As that dede styk bare frute ful pure, So Cryst xuld ryse to lyve ageyn.
_Lucas._ That a deed styk ffrute xulde bere, I merveyle sore therof i-wys; But ȝitt hymsylf ffro dethe to rere, And leve ageyn, more woundyr it is. That he doth leve, I trost not this, ffor he hath bled his blood so red; But ȝitt of myrthe evyr moor I mys, Whan I have mende that he is ded.
_Christus._ Why be ȝe so harde of truste? Dede not Cryste reyse, thorwe his owyn myght, Laȝarus that deed lay undyr the duste, And stynkyd ryght foule, as I ȝow plyght? To lyff Cryst reysid hym aȝen ful ryght Out of his grave, this is serteyn; Why may nat Cryste hymself thus qwyght, And ryse from dethe to lyve ageyn?
_Cleophas._ Now trewly, sere, ȝour wurdys ben good, I have in ȝow ryght grett delyght; I pray ȝow, sere, with mylde mood, To dwelle with us alle this nyght. _Christus._ I must gon hens anon ful ryght, ffor grett massagys I have to do; I wolde abyde, yf that I myght, But at this tyme I must hens go.
_Lucas._ ȝe xal not gon fro us this nyght, It waxit alle derke, gon is the day, The sonne is downe, lorn is the lyght,— ȝe xal not gon from us away. _Christus._ I may not dwelle, as I ȝow say, I must this nyght go to my ffrende; Therfore, good bretheryn, I ȝow pray, Lett me not my wey to wende.
_Cleophas._ Trewly from us ȝe xal not go, ȝe xal abyde with us here stylle; ȝour goodly dalyaunce plesyth us so, We may nevyr have of ȝow oure fylle. We pray ȝow, sere, with herty wylle, Alle nyght with us abyde and dwelle; More goodly langage to talkyn us tylle, And of ȝour good dalyaunce more ffor to telle.
_Lucas._ ȝa, brothyr Cleophas, be myn assent, Lete us hym kepe with strenthe and myght; Sett on ȝowre hand with good entent, And pulle hym with us the wey welle ryght. The day is done sere, and now it is nyght; Why wole ȝe hens now from us go? ȝe xal abyde, as I ȝow plyght; ȝe xal not walke this nyght us ffro.
_Cleophas._ This nyght fro us ȝe go not away, We xal ȝow kepe betwen us tweyne; To us therfore ȝe say not nay, But walke with us, the wey is pleyne. _Christus._ Sythyn ȝe kepe me with myght and mayn, With herty wylle I xal abyde. _Lucas._ Of ȝour abydyng we be ful fayn, No man more welkom in this werd wyde.
_Cleophas._ Off oure mayster Cryst Jhesu ffor ȝe do speke so meche good, I love ȝow hertyly, trust me trew, He was bothe meke and mylde of mood. Of hym to speke is to me food; If ȝe had knowe hym, I dare wel say, And in what plyght with hym it stood, ȝe wold have thought on hym many a day.
_Lucas._ Many a day, ȝa, ȝa, i-wys He was a man of holy levynge, Thow he had be the childe of God in blys, Bothe wyse and woundyrfulle was his werkynge. But aftere ȝour labour and ferre walkynge, Takyth this loff and etythe sum bred; And than wyl we have more talkynge Of Cryst oure maystyr, that is now ded.
_Christus._ Bethe mery and glad, with hert fful fre, ffor of Cryst Jhesu, that was ȝour ffrende, ȝe xal have tydynges of game and gle Withinne a whyle, or ȝe hens wende. With myn hand this bred I blys, And breke it here, as ȝe do se; I ȝeve ȝow parte also of this, This bred to ete and blythe to be.
_Hic subito discedat Christus ab oculis eorum._
A, mercy, God! what was oure happe? Was not oure hert with love brennynge, Whan Cryst oure mayster so nere oure lappe Dede sitt and speke suche suete talkynge? He is now quyk and man lyvenge, That fyrst was slayn and put in grave; Now may we chaunge alle oure mornynge, ffor oure Lord is resyn his servauntes to save!
_Lucas._ Alas! for sorwe, what hap was this? Whan he dyd walke with us in way, He prevyd by Scripture, ryght wel i-wys, That he was resyn from undyr clay. We trustyd hym not, but evyr seyd nay; Alas, for shame! why seyd we so? He is resyn to lyve this day, Out of his grave oure Lord is go!
_Cleophas._ Latt us here no lengere dwelle, But to oure bretheryn the wey we wende; With talys trewe to them we telle That Cryst dothe leve, oure mayster and frende. _Lucas._ I graunt therto with hert ful hende, Lete us go walke forthe in owre way; I am ful joyfulle in hert and mende, That owre Lord levyth, that fyrst ded lay.