Ofader god, how fers & how cruel, In whom the list or wilt, canst þou the make!Whom wilt thu spare? ne wot I neuere a deel,Sithe thu thi sone hast to the deth be-take,That the offended neuere, ne dide wrake, Or mystook him to the, or disobeyde,Ne to non othere dide he harm, or seide.
I had ioye éntiere, & also gladnesse, Whan þou be-took him me to clothe & wrappeIn mannës flesch. I wend, in sothfastnesse,Have had for euere Ioyë be the lappe;But now hath sorwe caught me with his trappe; Mi ioye hath made a permutaciounWith wepyng & eek lamentacioun.
O holy gost, þat art alle comfortoure Of woful hertës that wofullë be,And art hire veray helpe & counceyloure,That [eke] of hey vertue shadówist meWhan þat the clernesse of thi diuinite So shynyng in my feerful gost alight,Which that me sore agasted & affright,
Whi hast thu me not in thi rémembraunce Now at this tymë, right as thu had tho?O whi is it noght [vn-]to thin pleasaunceNow for to schadwe me as weel also,That hid from me myght be my sonës woo? Wherof, if þat I may no counfort haue,ffrom deth-is strok there may no thing me save.
O gaubriel, whan þat thu come a place, And madest vnto me thi salewyng,And seidist thus: "heil, Mary, ful of grace!"Whi ne had thu govë [to] me warnyngOf þat gracë that veyn is and faylyng? As thu now seest, & sey it weel beforne,Sith my ioye is me rafte, my grace is lorne.
O thu elizabeth, my cosyn dere, The word[ës] þat thu spak in the mountayneBe ended al in á-nothére manereThan thu had wened; my blissyng in-to peyneRetorned is; of ioye am I bareyne; I song to sone; for I sang be the morwe,And now at evene I wepe and makë sorwe.
O woman, þat among the poepil speke, how that the wombë blissed was þat bere,And the tetýs þat gave to sowkë eekThe sone of god, the which þat hongith hire,What seist þou now? whi comest þou not nere? Whi art thu not here? a, woman! where art thu,That noght ne seest my woful body nowe?
O Symeon, þou seidist me ful sothe, "the strook þat perchë schal my sones herte,Myn sowle eek thirle it schal"; & so it doth;The wonde of deth [ne] may I not astirte;There may no martirdam me makë smerte So sore as this martírdam smertith me:So schuld he sey, þat myght myn hurtë see.
O Ioachim, a, derë fadir myn, And thu seint anne, my dere modire also,To what entent, or to what ende or fyneEngendred ye, me þat am greved soo?Mirthe to me is become a veray foo:
Youre fadire dauid, þat an harpowre was,Conforted men þat stod in hevy cas.
Me thinkith ye do not to me aright, that were his súccessoures, sith instrumentHave ye non left, wherwith to hauë light,And me counfort in my woful turment.Me to [doon] esë, have ye no talent, And knowë my counfort[e]les distresse:Ye aught to wepë for myn hevynesse.
O blissed sone, on the wil I owt-throwe My salt[ë] teres; for singulerly on theMy loke is sette. o, thinke how many a throweThu on myn armës lay, and on my kneeThu sat, & had many a cusse of me; Also, the to sowke, of my brestis yaf I, Thé norissching [right] faire & tenderly.
Now the, from me, withdrawith bitter deth, And makith a wrong[ful] disseueraunce.Think þou not, sone, in me þat ony brethEndurë may, þat fele al this greuaunce.Mi martirdom, me hath at vtteraunce; I nedës stervë mot, sith I the seeShamefully naked, streit upon this tree.
And this me sleth, that in the open day Thin hertis wondë schewith him so wide,That allë men see and be-holde it may,So largëly, lo, openèd is thi side;O, wo is me, þat sith I may not hide! And, among other of my smert[ë] grevës,Thu art now put also among [the] thevës,
As thowe, my sone, had be a wiked wight. And lest þat som men also, perauenture,
No knowleche had of thi persone a-right,Pilate hath put up thi name in scripture,That knowë it may eueri crëature, ffor þat thi penaunce schuld[ë] not be hid.O, wo is me, þat see alle this beted!
How may my eynë [þat] be-holde alle this, Refreynë hem to schewë by wepyngMyn hert[es] greef? mot I not wepe? o, yis.Sone, if thu hadist here, fadire lievyng,Þat woldë wepe and makë weymentyng ffor cause he had[de] part in thi persone,That were [a] gret abreggyng of my mone.
But thu, in erthë, fadir had[dist] neuere; No wight for the, suche cause hath for to wepe,As now haue I. schalt thu fro me disseuere,That art all hooly myn? my sorwes deepeHave all myn hert-is ioyës leyd to slepe. No wight with me, in the, my sone, hath part;Alle holy of my blod, dere child, þou art.
That dowbleth al my torment & my greef; Vn-to myn hert it is confusïon,Thi harme to see, þat art to me so leef.Myght not this raunsom or redempcïonOf man, have be withowt effusyon Of thi blood? Yis, if it had be thi lust;But what þat it be do, suffre the must.
O deth, þat so kithest thi bittirnesse, ffirst on my sone, and afterward on me,Bittere art thu, and ful of crabydnesse,That thus my sone hast slayne with cruelte,And noght me slest! certayn I wil not flee. Come of, come [of], and slee me here, as blyff; ffro him departë wil I not a-lyffe.
O mones, o sterrës, and thou firmament, how may ye nowe from wepyng yow restreyne,And see youre crëature in suche torment?Ye owght, tourbled to be in euery veyne,And his dispietows deth with me compleyne. Wepith and crieth as lowde as euere ye may!Oure crëature with wrong is slayn this day!
O Sonnë, with thi cleerë bemys bright, That seest my child nakéd this non-is tyde,Whi suffrist him [thou] in the open sightHere of this men, vncovered to abide?Thu art, as muche or more, holde him to hide, Than Sem þat heled his fadir NoeWhan he aspyed þat naked so was he.
If thu his sonë be, do like there-to! let see with-drawe thi bemës bright[e]nesse:Þou art to blame, but if þat thu so do.ffor schame, hide my sones nakidnesse! Is there in the no droppe of kendënesse? Remembre, he is thi lord & crëature;Now covere him for thi worshippe and honoure!
O erthe, what lust hast thu, so to susteyne The crosse on which he þat the made, and it,Is hongëd, and adornëd the with greneWhich þat thu on weredist? how hast thu the qwitteVnto thi lord? o, do this for him yitte! Now qwakë yow for dool, & clevë thu in two,And alle þat blood, restorë thu me to,
Which þou hast drunken: it is myn, & not thin. Or elles thus, with owt[en] tarieng,Tho bodies deed[ë] which þat in the lyne,Cast owt: for thei be taste of such dewynghem owt to clothe a-geyn in hire clothing. Thu Caluary, art holdë, namëlySo for to do: parde, to the speke I.
O derë sone, my deth now neighith fast, Sith to a-nothere thu hast goven me,Than vnto the; And how may my liffe last,Þat me gevest to ony othere than to the,Thow [it] so be that he a virgyne bee? if thu, be Iuste Balaunce, woldest wey all,The weight of him & the is not egall.
He a disciple is; thu art his lord; Thu alwey art gretterë than he is;Be-twyn youre myghtis is there gret discorde.My woful turnement dowblyd is be this;I nedës mornë must, & fare a-mysse. it semith þat thu makist départyngOf the & me, for ay withowt endyng;
And, namely, sith thu me but "woman" callest, As I to the were straunge & al vnknowe;There-throw, my sone, my Ioyës thu appallest; Weel fele I thát deth hís vengeábill bowehath bent, & me purpósith doun to throwe; Of sorwe, takë may I not Inowe,Sith [that] my namë don awey is nowe:
Wel may men calle or namë me "marra" Fro hen[ne]s forth; and so men may me calle.How schuld I longere be called 'Mária,'Sith 'I,' which is Ihesus, is fro me falleThis day, and my swetnesse [is] in-to galle Turned, sith 'I' which was the bëawte,Lo, of my name, this day beraft is me.
O Iohn, my derë frende, thu hast receyved A woful modier; & an hevi sonehave I of the. deth hath myn other veyued:
How may we two the deth eschewe or schone?We drery wightës two, where may we wone? Thu art of counfort destitute, I se,And so am I! o, carefull now be we!
Un-to oure hertës, deth hath sent his wonde; Non of vs may allegen othir-is peyne;So many sorwis in vs two abounde,We haue no myght fro sorwe vs to restreyne.I se non othir, but deyë mot we tweyne; Now let vs stervë here be companye:Stervë thu there, & right here I wil dye.
O Aungeles, theï ye mornë, wayle & wepe, Ye do no wrong; for slayn is youre créatoure,Be the poepil þat ye were wont to kepe,To gide & lede: thei to the dedës schowrehave put him. thow ye have wo & langoure, No wonder is it: who may blamë yowe?And most chier he had, of hem þat him slowe.
O special love, which þat me ioyned hast Vnto my sone, ful strong is thi knettyng! This day, there-inne fynde I a bitter tast;ffor now I tast & felë the streynyngOf deth, be thi deth: deth fele I me styng. O purë modier, what schalt thu now seye?Pore Maryë! thi witte is now awey.
Maria, nay, but 'marred' I the call; So may I weel; for þou art, weel I wot,Vessel of care & woo, & sorwes alle.Now þou art frosty coold; now fery hoot;And right as þat a schippe, or barge or boot, Among the wawës dryveth sternëles,So dost thu, woful woman counfortles.
And also of modier hast þou lost the style; No more may thu be called by that name.
O sones of Adam, al to long[ë] whileYe tarie hens! hastith hedir for schame!See how my sonë, for youre gilt and blame, lo, hangith here, bibléd upon the crosse!Bymeneth him in hert, in chiere & voysse!
His blody stremës, se now, & be-holde! if ye to him have [any] affeccïoun,Now, for his woo, youre hertës owt[en] colde;Schewyth youre kendnesse & youre dileccioun,ffor youre gilt makith he correccioun, And ámendith right be his ownë deth:That ye noght rewe on him, myn hert it sleth.
A, modier, þat so sone hire cotë tare Or rentë! say ye neuere none or this,ffor child [the] which [she] of hire body bare,To yeve hire tete. and my child þat here is,his cote hath torne, for youre gilt, not for his, [&] hath of his blood spilt in gret foysoun;And alle his, lo, for youre redempcïoun!
My derë childe, my fruyt þat on [me] growed, Myn lusty appil, blisful faire and sweet,Now deth hath him be-clapped with his clowde,That him perced [vn]to the hertë rote.Go to, thow man, þere thu myght haue thi bote! Go suke the Iuce! the is no thing so sweet;Go take thin part! I rede the not for-gete.
Go nere, & see how þat he is for-bete, And alle for-persed sore and pietously!See how there rennë fyvë stremës grete,That yelde[n] owt the Iuce habundauntly!Go sowke therof! I say you faithfully, In good tyme was he bore, þat hath þat grace,In tho woundes to make his duellyng place.
O Aduersari, [t]how cruel dryë tree, To the speke I! nowe hast þou thi entent;My sweet[ë] fruyt þou hast be-reved meA-geyn my will, nothing of myne assent.I se how al to-Raced and to-rent On the he hongith: is this weel I-doo?I bare him monethis nyne, but no thing so.
O cruel tree, sith thu hast thi desire, Whi wilt þou not, to my fruyt be fauorábill,To saue it hool? but feruentere than the fierehe fyndeth, & nothing [in thee] agrëáble.It is to me but alle discountfortáble To se myn herte attached the vpon,ffor he & I, oure hert[ë] is but one.
Now with my fruyt art þou here openly, That alle the world it may be-holde & seeRestored, which (I sey the sekerly)Is more of vertue and of dignyteThan was the fruyt þat spoyled was from the. Thu hast thi will; thin honoure schal suffiseTo the: yelde me my fruyt in goodly wise!
