Ludus Coventriæ

by Unknown

V. ABRAHAM’S SACRIFICE.

Introitus Abrahe, etc.

Most myghty makere of sunne and of mone,

Kyng of kynges, and Lord over alle,

Allemyghty God in hevyn trone,

I the honowre and evyr more xal!

My Lord, my God! to the I kalle,

With herty wylle, Lord, I the pray,

In synfulle lyff lete me nevyr falle,

But lete me leve evyr to thi pay.

Abraham my name is kydde,

And patryarke of age ful olde;

And ȝit be the grace of God is bredde,

In myn olde age, a chylde fulle bolde.

Ysaac, lo! here his name is tolde,

My swete sone that stondyth me by,

Amonges alle chylderyn that walkyn on wolde,

A lovelyer chylde is non trewly.

I thanke God with hert welle mylde,

Of his gret mercy and of his hey grace,

And pryncepaly ffor my suete chylde,

That xal to me do gret solace.

Now, suete sone, ffayre fare thi fface,

fful hertyly do I love the,

ffor trewe herty love now in this place,

My swete childe, com, kysse now me.

Ysaac. At ȝoure byddynge ȝour mouthe I kys,

With lowly hert I ȝow pray,

ȝoure fadyrly love lete me nevyr mysse,

But blysse me, ȝour chylde, bothe nyght and day.

Abraham. Almyghty God, that best may,

His dere blyssyng he graunt the,

And my blyssyng thou have alle way,

In what place that evyr thou be.

Now, Ysaac, my sone so suete,

Almyghty God loke thou honoure,

Wiche that made bothe drye and wete,

Shynyng sunne and scharpe schoure.

Thu art my suete childe, and par amoure

fful wele in herte do I the love,

Loke that thin herte, in hevyn toure

Be sett to serve oure Lord God above.

In thi ȝonge lerne God to plese,

And God xal quyte the weyl thi mede:

Now, suete sone, of wordys these

With alle thin hert thou take good hede.

Now fare weyl, sone, God be thin spede!

Evyn here at hom thou me abyde,

I must go walkyn, ffor I have nede,

I come aȝen withinne a tyde.

Ysaac. I pray to God, ffadyr of myght,

That he ȝow spede in alle ȝour waye,

From shame and shenshipp, day and nyht,

God mote ȝow kepe in ȝour jornay.

Abraham. Now fare weylle, sone! I the pray

Evyr in thin hert loke God thou wynde,

Hym to serve, bothe nyght and day,—

I pray to God sende the good mynde.

Ther may no man love bettyr his childe,

Than Isaac is lovyd of me;

Almyghty God, mercyful and mylde,

ffor my swete son I wurchyp the!

I thank the, Lord, with hert ful fre,

ffor this fayr frute thou hast me sent.

Now, gracyous God, wher so he be,

To save my sone evyr more be bent.

Dere Lord, I pray to the also,

Me to save for thi servvaunte;

And sende me grace nevyr for to do

Thyng that xulde be to thi displesaunte.

Bothe ffor me and for myn infaunte,

I pray the, Lord God, us to help,—

Thy gracyous goodnes thou us grawnt,

And save thi servaunt from helle qwelp.

Angelus. Abraham, how! Abraham,

Lyst and herke weylle onto me.

Abraham. Al redy, sere, here I am;

Telle me ȝour wylle what that it be.

Angelus. Almyghty God thus doth bydde the,—

Ysaac thi sone anon thou take,

And loke hym thou slee anoon, lete se,

And sacrafice to God hym make.

Thy welbelovyd childe thou must now kylle,

To God thou offyr hym, as I say,

Evyn upon ȝon hey hylle,

That I the shewe here in the way.

Tarye not be nyght nor day,

But smertly thi gate thou goo;

Upon ȝon hille thou knele and pray

To God, and kylle the childe ther and scloo!

Abraham. Now Goddys comaundement must nedys be done,

Alle his wyl is wourthy to be wrought;

But ȝitt the fadyr to scle the sone,

Grett care it causyth in my thought.

In byttyr bale now am I brought

My swete childe with knyf to kylle;

But ȝit my sorwe avaylith ryght nowth,

For nedys I must werke Goddys wylle.

With evy hert I walke and wende,

My childys deth now for to be,

Now must the fadyr his suete sone schende

Alas! for ruthe it is peté!

My swete sone, come hedyr to me:

How, Isaac, my sone dere,

Com to thi ffadyr, my childe so fre,

ffor we must wende to-gedyr in fere.

Isaac. Alle redy fadyr, evyn at ȝour wylle,

And at ȝour byddyng I am ȝow by,

With ȝow to walk ovyr dale and hille,

At ȝoure callyng I am redy.

To the fadyr evyr most comly,

It ovyth the childe evyr buxom to be;

I wyl obey, ful hertyly,

To alle thyng that ȝe bydde me.

Abraham. Now, son, in thi necke this fagot thou take,

And this fyre here in thinne honde,

ffor we must now sacrefyse go make,

Evyn aftyr the wylle of Goddys sonde.

Take this brennyng bronde,

My swete childe, and lete us go;

Ther may no man that levyth in londe,

Have more sorwe than I have wo.

Ysaac. ffayr fadyr, ȝe go ryght stylle,

I pray ȝow, fadyr, speke onto me.

Abraham. Mi gode childe, what is thi wylle?

Telle me thyn hert, I pray to the.

Ysaac. ffadyr, fyre and wood here is plenté,

But I kan se no sacryfice;

What ȝe xulde offre fayn wold I se,

That it were don at the best avyse.

Abraham. God xal that ordeyn that sytt in hevynne,

My swete sone, ffor this offryng,

A derrere sacryfice may no man nempne,

Than this xal be, my dere derlyng.

Ysaac. Lat be, good fadyr, ȝour sad wepynge!

ȝour hevy cher agrevyth me sore:

Telle me, fadyr, ȝour grett mornyng,

And I xal seke sum help therfore.

Abraham. Alas! dere sone, for nedys must me,

Evyn here the kylle, as God hath sent;

Thyn owyn fadyr thi deth must be,—

Alas! that evyr this bowe was bent.

With this fyre bryght thou must be brent,

An aungelle seyd to me ryght so:

Alas! my chylde, thou xalt be shent!

Thi careful fadyr must be thi ffo!

Ysaac. Almyghty God, of his grett mercye,

fful hertyly I thanke the sertayne:

At Goddys byddyng here for to dye,

I obeye me here for to be sclayne.

I pray ȝow, fadyr, be glad and fayne,

Trewly to werke Goddys wylle:

Take good comforte to ȝow agayn,

And have no dowte ȝour childe to kylle.

ffor Godys byddyng forsothe it is,

That I of ȝow my deth schulde take:

Aȝens God ȝe don amys,

Hys byddyng yf ȝe xuld forsake.

ȝowre owyn dampnacion xulde ȝe bake,

If ȝe me kepe from this reed;

With ȝour swerd my deth ȝe make,

And werk evyrmore the wylle of God.

Abraham. The wylle of God must nedys be done!

To werke his wylle I seyd nevyr nay;

But ȝit the ffadyr to sle the sone,

My hert doth clynge and cleve as clay.

Ysaac. ȝitt werke Goddys wylle, fadyr, I ȝow pray,

And sle me here anoon forthe ryght,

And turne fro me ȝour face away,

Myne heed whan that ȝe xul of smyght.

Abraham. Alas! dere childe, I may not chese,—

must nedys my swete sone kylle!

My dere derlyng, now must me lese,

Myn owyn sybb blood now xal I spylle!

ȝitt this dede or I fulfylle,

My swete sone, thi mouth I kys.

Ysaac. Al redy, fadyr, evyn at ȝour wylle

I do ȝour byddyng, as reson is.

Abraham. Alas! dere sone, here is no grace,

But nedis ded now must thou be!

With this kerchere I kure thi face,

In the tyme that I sle the.

Thy lovely vesage wold I not se,

Not for alle this werdlys good:

With this swerd, that sore grevyht me,

My childe I sle and spylle his blood!

Angelus. Abraham! Abraham! thou fadyr fre.

Abraham. I am here redy, what is ȝour wylle?

Angelus. Extende thin hand in no degré,

I bydde thou hym not kylle!

Here do I se by ryght good skylle,

Allemyghty God that thou dost drede.

For thou sparyst nat thi sone to spylle,—

God wylle aqwhyte the welle thi mede.

Abraham. I thank my God in hevyn above,

And hym honowre for this grett grace!

And that my Lord me thus doth prove,

I wylle hym wurchep in every place.

My childys lyff is my solace,

I thank myn God evyr for his lyff,

In sacrifice here or I hens pace,

I sle this shepe with this same knyff.

Now this shepe is deed and slayn,

With this fyre it xal be brent;

Of Isaac my sone I am ful fayn,

That my swete childe xal not be shent.

This place I name, with good entent,

The hille of Godys vesytacion:

ffor hedyr God hath to us sent

His comforte, aftyr grett trybulacion.

Angelus. Herke, Abraham, and take good heyd!

By hymself God hath thus sworne,

ffor that thou woldyst a done this dede,

He wylle the blysse bothe evyn and morne.

ffor thi dere childe thou woldyst have lorn,

At Goddys byddyng, as I the telle;

God hath sent the word beforn,

Thi seed xal multyplye, wher so thou duelle.

As sterres in hevyn byn many and fele,

So xal thi seed encrese and growe;

Thou xalt ovyrcome, in welthe and wele,

Alle thi fomen reknyd be rowe.

As sond in the se doth ebbe and flowe,

Hath cheselys many unnumerabylle,

So xal thi sede, thou mayst me trowe,

Encres and be evyr prophytabylle.

ffor to my speche thou dedyst obeye,

Thyn enmyes portes thou shalt possede;

And alle men on erthe, as I the seye,

Thei xal be blyssed in thi sede.

Almyghty God thus the wylle mede,

ffor that good wylle that thou ast done,

Therfore thank God, in word and dede,

Bothe thou thiself, and Ysaac thi sone.

Abraham. A! my lord God to wurchep on kne now I falle!

I thank the, Lord, of thi mercy!

Now, my swete childe, to God thou kalle,

And thank we that Lord now hertyly.

Isaac. With lowly hert to God I crye,—

I am his servvant bothe day and nyght!

I thank the, Lord, in hevyn so hyȝe,

With hert, with thought, with mayn, with myght!

Abraham. Gramercy, Lord, and kyng of grace!

Gramercy, Lord over lordys alle!

Now my joye returnyth his trace,

I thank the, Lorde, in hevyn thin halle.

Isaac. Ovyr alle kynges crownyd kyng, I the kalle!

At thi byddyng to dye with knyff,

I was fful buxum evyn as thi thralle;—

Lord, now I thank the, thou grauntyst me lyff.

Abraham. Now we have wurchepyd oure blyssyd lorde,

On grounde knelyng upon oure kne;

Now lete us tweyn, sone, ben of on acorde,

And goo walke hom into oure countré.

Ysaac. ffadyr, as ȝe wylle, so xal it be,

I am redy with ȝow to gon;

I xal ȝow folwe with hert fulle fre;

Alle that ȝe bydde me, sone xal be don.

Abraham. Now, God alle thyng of nowth that made,

Evyr wurcheppyd he be on watyr and londe!

His gret honowre may nevyr more fade,

In felde nor town, se nor on sonde!

As althyng, Lord, thou hast in honde,

So save us alle, wher so we be,—

Whethyr we syttyn, walk, or stonde,

Evyr on thin handwerke thou have pyté!

Explicit.