Classic Poem

O fadir God, how fers and how cruel,
In whom thee list or wilt, canst thow thee make.
Whom wilt thow spare, ne wot I neuere a deel,
Syn thow thy sone hast to the deeth betake,
That thee offendid neuere ne dide wrake
Or mystook Him to thee or disobeyde,
Ne to noon othere dide He harm or seide.

I hadde ioye entiere and also gladnesse
Whan thow betook Him me to clothe and wrappe
In mannes flessh. I wend, in sothfastnesse,
Have had for euere ioye by the lappe.
But now hath sorwe caught me with his trappe.
My ioye hath made a permutacioun
With wepyng and eek lamentacioun.

O holy goost, þat art all confortoure
Of woful hertes that wofulle be
And art hire verray helpe and counceyloure,
That eek of hy vertu shadwist me
Whan þat the clernesse of thi diuinitee
So shynyng in my feerful goost alight,
Which þat me sore agastid and affright,

Why hast thow me not in thy remembraunce
Now at this tyme right as thow had tho?
O why is it noght vnto thi pleasaunce
Now for to shadwe me as wel also,
That hid from me myght be my sones wo?
Wherof if þat I may no confort haue,
From deethes strook there may no thing me saue.

O Gaubriel, whan þat thow came apace
And madest vnto me thy salewyng
And seidest thus, “Heil Mary, ful of grace”,
Why ne had thow youen me warnyng
Of þat grace that veyn is and faylyng,
As thow now seest, and sey it wel beforne,
Syn my ioye is me rafte, my grace is lorne.

O thow Elizabeth, my cosyn dere,
The wordes þat thow spak in the mountayne
Be endid al in another manere
Than thow had wende. My blissyng into peyne
Retorned is. Of ioye am I bareyne.
I song to sone, for I sang be the morwe
And now at euene I wepe and make sorwe.

O womman þat among the peple speek,
How þat the wombe blessid was þat beer,
And the tetes þat yaf to sowken eek
The sone of God, which on hy hangith heer,
What seist thow now, why comest thow no neer?
Why n'art thow heere? O womman, where art thow
That nat ne seest my woful wombe now?

O Simeon, thow seidest me ful sooth,
The strook that perce shal my sones herte
My soule thirle it shal. And so it dooth.
The wownde of deeth ne may I nat asterte.
Ther may no martirdom me make smerte
So sore as this martire smertith me.
So sholde he seyn þat myn hurt mighte see.

O Ioachim, O deere fadir myn,
And seint Anne, my modir deere also,
To what entente or to what ende or fyn
Broghten yee me foorth þat an greeued so?
Mirthe is to me become a verray fo.
Your fadir Dauid þat an harpour was
Conforted folk þat stood in heuy cas.

My thynkith yee nat doon to me aright
that were his successours, syn instrument
Han yee noon left wherwith me make light
And me conforte in my woful torment.
Me to doon ese han yee no talent,
And knowen myn conforteless distresse.
Yee oghten weepe for myn heuynesse.

O blessid sone, on thee wole I out throwe
My salte teeres, for oonly on thee
My look is set. O thynke, how many a throwe
Thow in myn armes lay and on my knee
Thow sat and haddist many a kus of me.
Eek, thee to sowke, on my brestes yaf Y
Thee norisshyng faire and tendrely.

Now thee fro me withdrawith bittir deeth
And makith a wrongful disseuerance.
Thynke nat, sone, in me þat any breeth
Endure may þat feele al this greuance.
My martirdom me hath at the outrance.
I needes sterue moot syn I thee see
Shamely nakid, strecchid on a tree.

And this me sleeth, þat in the open day
Thyn hertes wownde shewith him so wyde
that alle folk see and beholde it may,
So largeliche opned is thy syde.
O wo is me, syn I nat may it hyde.
And among othir of my smerte greeues
Thow put art also, sone, amonges theeues,

As thow were an euel and wikkid wight.
And lest þat somme folk perauenture
No knowleche hadde of thy persone aright,
Thy name Pilat hath put in scripture
that knowe mighte it euery creature,
For thy penance sholde nat been hid.
O wo is me, þat al this see betid.

How may myn yen þat beholde al this
Restreyne hem for to shewe by weepynge
My hertes greef? Moot I nat weepe? O yis.
Sone, if thow haddist a fadir lyuynge
That wolde weepe and make waymentynge
For þat he hadde paart of thy persone,
That were a greet abreggynge of my mone.

But thow in eerthe fadir haddist neuere.
No wight for thee swich cause hath for to weepe
As þat haue I. Shalt thow fro me disseuere
that aart al hoolly myn? My sorwes deepe
Han al myn hertes ioie leid to sleepe.
No wight with me in thee, my sone, hath part.
Hoolly of my blood, deere chyld, thow art.

That doublith al my torment and my greef.
Vnto myn herte it is confusion
Thyn harm to see, þat art to me so leef.
Mighte nat, sone, the redempcioun
Of man han bee withoute effusioun
Of thy blood? Yis, if it had been thy lust.
But what thow wilt be doon, souffre me must.

O deeth, so thow kythist thy bittirnesse
First on my sone and aftirward on me.
Bittir art thow and ful of crabbidnesse
That my sone hast slayn thurgh thy crueltee
And nat me sleest. Certein nat wole I flee.
Come of, come of, and slee me heere as blyue.
Departe from him wole I nat alyue.

O moone, o sterres, and thow firmament,
How many yee fro wepynge yow restreyne
And seen your creatour in swich torment?
Yee oghten troublid been in euery veyne
And his despitous deeth with me compleyne.
Weepeth and crieth as lowde as yee may,
Our creatour with wrong is slayn this day.

O sonne, with thy cleere bemes brighte
that seest my child nakid this nones tyde,
Why souffrest thow him in the open sighte
Of the folk heere vnkeuered abyde?
Thou art as moche, or more, holde him to hyde
Than Sem þat helid his fadir Noe
Whan he espyde þat nakid was he.

If thow his sone be, do lyk therto.
Come of, withdrawe thy bemes brightnesse.
Thow art to blame but if thow so do.
For shame hyde my sones nakidnesse.
Is ther in thee no sparcle of kyndenesse?
Remembre he is thy lord and creatour.
Now keuere him for thy worsship and honour.

O eerthe, what lust hast thow to susteene
The crois on which he þat thee made and it
Is hangid, and aourned thee with greene
Which þat thow werist? How hast thow thee qwit
Vnto thy lord? O do this for him yit.
Qwake for doel and cleue thow in two,
And al þat blood restore me vnto

Which thow hast dronke. It myn is and not thyn.
Or elles thus, withouten taryynge,
Tho bodyes dede whiche in thee þat lyn
Caste out, for they by taast of swich dewynge
Hem oghte clothe ageyn in hir clothynge.
Thow Caluarie, thow are namely
Holden for to do so. To thee speke Y.

O deere sone, myn deeth neighith faste
Syn to anothir thow hast youen me
Than vnto thee. And how may my lyf laste
that me yeuest any othir than thee?
Thogh he whom thow me yeuest maiden be
And thogh by iust balance thow weye al,
The weighte of him and thee nat is egal.

He a disciple is and thow art a lord.
Thow al away art gretter than he is.
Betwixt your mightes is ther greet discord.
My woful torment doublid is by this.
I needes mourne moot and fare amis.
It seemeth þat thow makist departynge
Twixt thee and me for ay withoute endynge,

And namely syn thow me ‘womman’ callist,
As I to thee straunge were and vnknowe.
Therthurgh, my sone, thow my ioie appallist.
Wel feele I þat deeth his vengeable bowe
Hath bent and me purposith doun to throwe.
Of sorwe talke may I nat ynow,
Syn fro my name ‘I’ doon away is now.

Wel may men clepe and calle me Mara
From hennesforward, so may men me call.
How sholde I lenger clept be Maria,
Syn ‘I’, which is Ihesus, is fro me fall.
This day al my swetnesse is into gall
Torned, syn þat ‘I’, which was the beautee
Of my name, this day bynome is me.

O Iohn, my deere freend, thow hast receyued
A woful modir, and an heuy sone
Haue I of thee. Deeth hath myn othir weyued.
How may we two the deeth eschue or shone?
We drery wightes two, wher may we wone?
Thou art of confort destitut, I see,
And so am I. Ful careful been wee.

Vnto oure hertes deeth hath sent his wownde.
Noon of vs may alleggen othres peyne.
So manye sorwes in vs two habownde
We han no might fro sorwe vs restreyne.
I see non othir, die moot we tweyne.
Now let vs steruen heer par compaignie.
Sterue thow there, and heere wole I die.

O angels, thogh yee mourne and waile and weepe,
Yee do no wrong. Slayn is your creatour
By the folk þat yee weren wont to keepe
And gye and lede. They to dethes shour
Han put him, thogh yee han wo and langour,
No wondir is it. Who may blame yow?
And yit ful cheer he had hem þat him slow.

O special loue þat ioyned haast
Vnto my sone, strong is thy knyttynge.
This day therin fynde I a bittir taast
For now the taast I feele and the streynynge
Of deeth. By thy deeth feele I deeth me stynge.
O poore modir, what shalt thow now seye?
Poore Marie, thy wit is [al] aweye.

Marie? Nay, but ‘marred’ I thee calle.
So may I wel, for thow art wel, I woot,
Vessel of care and wo and sorwes alle.
Now thow art frosty cold, now fyry hoot,
And right as þat a ship or barge or boot
Among the wawes dryueth steerelees,
So doost thow, woful womman, confortlees.

And of modir haast thow eek lost the style.
No more maist thow clept be by thy name.
O sones of Adam, al to long whyle
Yee tarien hens. Hieth hidir for shame,
See how my sone for your gilt and blame
Hangith heer al bybled vpon the crois.
Bymeneth him in herte and cheere and vois.

His blody stremes see now and beholde.
If yee to him han any affeccioun
Now for his wo your hertes oghten colde.
Shewith your loue and your dileccioun.
For your gilt makith he correccioun
And amendes right by his owne deeth.
That yee nat reewe on him, myn herte it sleeth.

A modir þat so soone hir cote taar
Or rente, sy men neuere noon or this,
For chyld which þat shee of hir body baar
To yeue her tete, as my chyld þat heere is;
His cote hath torn for your gilt, nat for his,
And hath his blood despent in greet foysoun,
And al it was for your redempcioun.Cest tout.

Ceste conpleynte paramont feust
translatee au commandement de
ma dame de Hereford, que dieu