Ludus Coventriæ

by Unknown

XXXIV. THE BURIAL OF CHRIST.

Centurio. In trewthe now I knowe with ful opyn syght,

That Goddys dere sone is naylid on tre!

These wundyrful tokenys aprevyn ful ryght

Quod vere filius Dei erat iste!

Alius miles (2). The very child of God I suppose that he be,

And so it semyth wele be his wundyrful werk!

The erthe sore qwakyth, and that agresyth me,

With myst and grett wedyr it is woundyr dyrk!

Alius Miles (3). Soche merveylis shewe may non erthely man,

The eyr is ryght derke, that fyrst was ryght clere;

The erthe-qwave is grett, the clowdys waxe whan,

These tokenys preve hym a lord without any pere!

Centurio. His fadyr is pereles kyng of most empere,

Bothe lorde of this world and kynge of hevyn hyȝe;

ȝitt out of alle synne to brynge us owt of daungere,

He soferyth his dere sone for us alle to dye.

Nichodemus. Alas! alas! what syght is this?

To se the lorde and kynge of blys,

That nevyr synnyd ne dede amys,

Thus naylid upon a rode!

Alas! ȝewys, what have ȝe wrought?

A! ȝe wyckyd wytys, what was ȝour thought?

Why have ȝe bobbyd and thus betyn owth

Alle his blyssyd blood?

Senturyo. A! now trewly telle weyl I kan,

That this was Goddys owyn sone!

I knowe he is both God and man,

Be this wark that here is done!

Ther was nevyr man but God that cowde make this werk,

That evyr was of woman born!

Were he nevyr so gret a clerk,

It passeth hem alle, thow thei had sworn!

Hese lawe was trewe, I dare wel saye,

That he tawth us here amonge!

Therfore I rede ȝe turne ȝour faye,

And amende that ȝe han do wronge!

Joseph of Aram. O! good Lord Jhesu, that deyst now here on rode,

Have mercy on me and forgyf me mys!

I wold the worchep here with my good,

That I may come to thi blysse!

To Pylat now wool I goon,

And aske the body of my Lord Jhesu;

To bery that now wold I soon,

In my grave that is so new.

Heyl! sere Pylat, that syttyth in sete!

Heyl! justyce of Jewys men do the calle!

Heyl! with helthe I do the grete,

I pray the of a bone what so befalle.

To bery Jhesuis body I wole the pray,

That he were out of mennys syth;

ffor to morwyn xal be oure holyday,

Than wole no man hym bery, I the plyth.

And yf we lete hym hange ther stylle,

Some wolde seyn therof anow;

The pepyl therof wold seyn ful ylle,

That nother xuld be ȝour worchep nor prow.

Pylat. Sere Joseph of Baramathie, I graunt the

With Jhesuis body do thin intent;

But fyrst I wole wete that he ded be,

As it was his jugement!

Sere knytys, I comawnd ȝow that ȝe go

In hast with Josepht of Baramathie;

And loke ȝe take good hede therto,

That Jhesu suerly ded be.

Se that this comawndement ȝe fulfylle,

Without wordys ony mo;

And than lete Joseph do his wylle,

What that he wyl with Jhesu do.

Here come to knytes beforn Pylat at onys, thus seyng,

Primus Miles. Sere, we xal do oure dylygens,

With Joseph goyng to Calvarye;

Be we out of thi presens,

Sone the trewthe we xal aspye.

Joseph. Gramercy, Pylat, of ȝour jentylnesse,

That ȝe ban grawntyd me my lyst;

Any thyng in my province

ȝe xal have at ȝour resquest.

Pylat. Sere, alle ȝour lest ȝe xal have,

With Jhesuis body do ȝour intent;

Whethyr ȝe bery hym in pyt or grave,

The powere I grawnt ȝow here present.

The ij. knygtes go with Joseph to Jhesus, and stande and heldyn hym in the face,

Secundus miles. Me thynkyth Jhesu is sewre anow,—

It is no ned his bonys to breke:

He is ded, how thinkyth ȝow?

He xal nevyr go nor speke.

Primus miles. We wyl be sure or than we go,

Of a thyng I am bethowth;

ȝondyr is a blynd knyth I xal go to,

And sone awhyle here xal be wrowth.

Here the knyth goth to blynde Longeys, and seyth,

Heyl, sere Longeys, thou gentyl knyth!

The I prey now ryth hertyly;

That thou wylt wend with me ful wyth,

It xal be for thi prow veryly.

Longeus. Sere, at ȝour comawndement with ȝow wyl I wende,

In what place ȝe wyl me have;

For I trost ȝe be my frend;

Lede me forth, sere, oure sabath ȝou save!

Primus miles. Lo! sere Longeys, here is a spere!

Bothe long, and brood, and sharp anow;

Heve it up fast that it wore there,

ffor here is game:— show, man, show.

Here Longeys showyth the spere warly, and the blood comyth rennyng to his hand, and he avantoresly xal wype his eyn.

Longeus. O good Lord! how may this be,

That I may se so bryth now?

This thretty wyntyr I myth not se,

And now I may se I wote nevyr how!

But ho is this that hangyth here now?

I trowe it be the mayndonys sone;

And that he is now I knowe wel how,

The Jewys to hym this velany han don!

Here he ffallyth downe on his knes.

Now, good Lord, fforgyf me that,

That I to the now don have;

For I dede I wyst not what,—

The Jewys of myn ignorans dede me rave.

Mercy! Mercy! Mercy! I crye.

Than Joseph doth set up the lederes and Nychodemus comyth to help hym.

Nicodemus. Joseph ab Aramathy, blyssyd thou be!

ffor thou dost a fol good dede;

I prey the lete me help the,

That I may be partenere of thi mede.

Joseph. Nychodemus, welcome indede!

I pray ȝow ȝe wole help therto;

He wole aqwyte us ryth wele oure mede,

And I have lysens for to do.

Here Joseph and Nychodemus takyn Cryst of the cros, on on o ledyr and the tother on another leddyr; and qwhan is had down, Joseph leyth hym in our Ladys lappe, seyng the knytes turnyng hem, and Joseph seyth,

Joseph. Lo! Mary modyr, good and trewe,

Here is thi son, blody and bloo!

ffor hym myn hert ful sore doth rewe,

Kysse hym now onys eer he go!

Maria Virgo. A, mercy! mercy! myn owyn sone so dere,

Thi blody face now I must kysse!

Thi face is pale, withowtyn chere!

Of meche joy now xal I mysse!

Ther was nevyr modyr that sey this,

So her sone dyspoyled with so gret wo;

And my dere chylde nevyr dede amys,—

A, mercy! fadyr of hefne, it xulde be so!

Joseph. Mary, ȝour sone ȝe take to me;

Into his grave it xal be browth.

Maria. Joseph, blyssyd ever mot thou be,

For the good ded that ȝe han wrowth!

Here thei xal leyn Cryst in his grave.

Joseph. I gyf the this syndony that I have bowth,

To wynde the in whyl it is new.

Nichodemus. Here is an onyment that I have browth,

To anoynt withalle myn lord Jhesu.

Joseph. Now Jhesu is withinne his grave,

Wheche I ordeyn somtyme for me;

On the, Lord, I vowche it save,

I knowe my mede ful gret xal be.

Nichodemus. Now lete us leyn on this ston ageyn,

And Jhesu in this tombe stylle xal be;

And we wyl walke hom ful pleyn,—

The day passyth fast I se.

Farewel, Joseph, and wel ȝe be;

No lengere teryeng here we make.

Joseph. Sere, almythy God be with the,

Into his blysse he mote ȝou take!

Maria. ffarewel, ȝe jentyl princes kende,

In joye evyr mote ȝe be!

The blisse of hefne withowtyn ende

I knowe veryly that ȝe xal se.

Here the princes xal do reverens to oure Lady, and gon here way, and leve the Maryes at the sepulchre.