Classic Poem

O fader God, how fers and how cruel,
In whom the list or wilt, canst þu the make
Whom wilt thu spare, ne wot I neuere a deel,
Sithe thu thi sone hast to the deth betake,
That the offended neuere ne dide wrake,
Or mystook him to the or disobeyde,
Ne to non other dide he harme or seide.

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

O holy gost, þat art alle confortoure
Of woful hertes that wofull be
And art hire veray helpe and counceyloure,
That of hey vertue shadowist me
Whan þat the clernesse of thi diuinite
So shynyng in my feerful gost alight,
Which that me sore agasted and affright,

Whi hast thu me not in thi remembraunce
Now at this tyme right as thu had tho?
O, whi is it noght to thin pleasaunce
Now for to shadwe me as weel also,
That hid from me myght be my sones woo?
Wherof if þat I may no counfort haue,
From dethis strok ther may nothing me save.

O Gaubriel, whan þat thou come aplace
And madest vnto me thi salewyng
And seidist thus, " Heil Mary, ful of grace " ,
Whi ne had thu gove me warnyng
Of þat grace that veyn is and faylyng,
As thu now seest, and sey it weel beforne?
Sith my ioye is me rafte, my grace is lorne.

O thu Elizabeth, my cosyn dere,
The word[es] þat thu spak in the mowntayn
Be ended al in another maner
Than thu had wened My blissyng into peyne
Retorned is. Of ioye am I bareyne
I song to sone, for I sang be the morwe,
And now at even 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 heer? O womman, wher 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 deer fadir myn,
And Seint Anne, my modir deer also,
To what entente, or to what ende or fyn,
Broghten yee me foorth þat am greeued so?
Mirthe is to me become a verray fo
Your fadir Dauid þat an harpour was
Conforted folk þat stood in heuy cas.

Me thynkith yee nat doon to me aright
þat wer 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 fair 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
þat 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 othre of my smerte greeues
Thow put art also, sone, amonges theeues,

As thow wer 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
þat 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
Myn 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 wer a greet abreggynge of my mone.

But thow in eerthe fadir haddist neuere.
No wight for thee swich cause hath for to pleyne
As þat haue I Shalt thow fro me disseuere
þat 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, deer 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 heer as blyue
Departe from him wole I nat alyue.

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

O sonne, with thy cleere bemes brighte
þat seest my child nakid this nones tyde,
Why souffrest thow him in the open sighte
Of the folk heer 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 nat 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 art namely
Holden for to do so. To thee speke Y.

O deer sone, myn deeth neighith faste
Syn to anothir thow hast youen me
Than vnto thee. And how may my lyf laste
þat 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 wer 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 deer 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 our 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 noon othir, die moot we tweyne
Now let vs steruen heer par conpaignie
Sterue thow ther, and heere wole I die.

O angels, thogh yee mourne and waile and weepe,
Yee do no wrong. Slayn is your creatour
By tho 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 me 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 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 heer 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.