XXXV. THE RESURRECTION.
Cayphas goth to Pylat, seyng thus,
Cayphas. Herk, sere Pylat, lyst to me!
I xal the telle tydynges new;
Of o thyng we must ware be,
Or ellys hereafter we myth it rewe.
Thou wotyst weyl that Jhesu,
He seyd to us with wordys pleyn,
He seyd we xuld fynd it trew,—
The thryd day he wold ryse ageyn.
Yf that hese dyscyplys come serteyn,
And out of his grave stele hym away,
Thei wyl go preche and pleyn seyn
That he is reson the thryd day.
This is the cowncel that I gyf here,
Take men and gyf hem charge therto
To weche the grave with gret power,
Tyl the thryd day be go.
Pylat. Sere Cayphas, it xal be do,
For, as ȝe say, ther is peryl in;
And it happend that it were so,
It myth make our lawys for to blyn.
ȝe xal se, ser, er that ȝe go,
How I xal this mater save,
And what I xal sey therto,
And what charge thei xal have.
Come forth, ȝe ser Amorawnt,
And ser Arphaxat; com ner also
Ser Cosdram, and ser Affraunt,
And here the charge that ȝe must do.
Seres, to Jhesuis grave ȝe xal go,
Tyl that the thryd day be gon;
And lete nother frend nor fo,
In no wey to towche the ston.
Yf ony of hese dyscipelys come ther
To feche the body fro ȝou away,
Bete hym down, have ȝe no fere,
With shamful deth do hym day.
In payn of ȝour godys and ȝour lyvys,
That ȝe lete hem nowth shape ȝou fro,
And of ȝour chyldere and ȝour wyfys,
For al ȝe lese, and ȝe do so.
Primus miles. Sere Pylat, we xal not ses
We xal kepe it strong anow.
Secundus miles. ȝa, and an hunderyd put hem in pres,
Thei xal dey, I make a vow.
Tertius miles. And han hunderyd! fy on an c. and an c. therto!
Ther is non of hem xal us withstonde.
Quartus miles. ȝa, and ther com an hunderyd thowsand and mo,
I xal hem kylle with myn honde.
Pylat. Wel, seres, than ȝour part ȝe do,
And to ȝour charge loke ȝe take hede,
Withowtyn wordys ony mo,
Here the knytes gon out of the place.
Lo! Ser Cayphas, how thynkyth ȝow?
Is not this wel browth abowth?
Cayphas. In feyth, ser, it is sure anow,
Hardely have ȝe no dowth.
Arfaxat. Let se, ser Amaraunt, where wele ȝe be?
Wole ȝe kepe the feet or the hed?
Ameraunt. At the hed, so mote I the,
And ho so come here he is but dead.
Arfaxat. And I wole kepe the feet this tyde,
Thow ther come both Jakke and Gylle.
Cosdram. And I xal kepe the ryth syde,
And ho so come I xal hym kylle.
Affraunt. And I wole on the lefte hand ben,
And ho so come here, he xal nevyr then;
fful sekyrly his bane xal I ben,
With dyntys of dowte.
Syr Pylat, have good day!
We xul kepyn the body in clay,
And we xul wakyn wele the way,
And wayten alle abowte.
Pylatus. Now, jentyl seres, wole ȝe vowchesaffe
To go with me and sele the graffe,
That he ne ryse out of the grave,
That is now ded?
Cayphas. We graunte, wel lete us now go:
Whan it is selyd and kepte also,
Than be we sekyr withowtyn wo,
And have of hym no dred.
Tunc ibunt ad sepulcrum Pilatus, Cayphas, Annas, et omnes milites, et dicunt.
Annas. Loo! here is wax fful redy dyght,
Sett on ȝour sele anon ful ryght,
Than be ȝe sekyr, I ȝow plyght—
He xal not rysyn ageyn.
Pilatus. On this corner my seal xal sytt,
And with this wax I sele this pytt;
Now dare I ley he xal nevyr flytt
Out of this grave serteayn.
Annas. Here is more wax fful redy, loo!
Alle the corneres ȝe sele also,
And with a lokke loke it too,—
Than lete us gon oure way.
And lete these knytes abydyn therby,
And yf hese dysciplys com prevyly
To stele awey this ded body,
To us they hem brynge without delay.
Pilatus. On every corner now is sett my seale,
Now is myn herte in welthe and wele,
This may no brybour awey now stele
This body from undyr ston.
Now, syr buschopp, I pray to the,
And Annas also, com on with me,
Evyn togedyr alle we thre
Homward the wey we gon.
As wynde wrothe,
Knyghtes, now goht,
Clappyd in clothe,
And kepyth hym welle.
Loke ȝe be bolde
With me for to holde,
ȝe xul have gold,
Pylat, Annas, and Cayphas go to ther skaffaldys, and the knyghtes seyn,
Affraunt. Now in this grownde
He lyth bounde,
That tholyd wounde,
ffor he was ffals.
This lefft cornere
I wyl kepe here,
Armyd clere,
Bothe hed and hals.
Cosdran. I wyl have this syde,
What so betyde;
If any man ryde
To stele the cors,
I xal hym chyde
With woundys wyde,
Amonge hem glyde
With fyne fors.
Ameraunt. The hed I take,
Hereby to wake;
A stele stake
I holde in honde,
Maystryes to make,
Crownys i-crake,
Schafftys to shake,
And schapyn schonde.
Arfaxat. I xal not lete
To kepe the fete,
They ar ful wete,
Walterid in blood.
He that wylle stalke,
Be brook or balke,
Hedyr to walke,
Tho wrecchis be wood.
Primus miles. Myn heed dullyth,
Myn herte ffullyth
Of sslepp.
Seynt Mahownd,
This beryenge grownd
Thou kepp!
Secundus miles. I sey the same,
ffor any blame
I falle.
Mahownd whelpe,
Aftyr thin helpe
I calle!
Tertius miles. I am hevy as leed,
ffor any dred
I slepe.
Mahownd of myght,
This ston to nyght
Thou kepe!
Quartus miles. I have no foot
To stonde on root
By brynke.
Here I aske
To go to taske
A wynke.
Tunc dormyent milites; et veniet Anima Christi de inferno, cum Adam et Eva, Abraham, John Baptist, et aliis.
Anima Christi. Come forthe, Adam, and Eve with the,
And alle my frendys that here in be;
To Paradys come forthe with me,
In blysse for to dwelle!
The fende of helle, that is ȝour ffoo,
He xal be wrappyd and woundyn in woo;
ffro wo to welthe now xul ȝe go,
With myrthe evyrmore to melle.
Adam. I thanke the, Lord, of thi grett grace,
That now is forȝovyn my grett trespace;
Now xal we dwellyn in blysful place,
In joye and endeles myrthe.
Thorwe my synne man was fforlorn,
And man to save thou wore alle torn,
And of a mayd in Bedlem born,
That evyr blyssyd be thi byrthe!
Eva. Blyssyd be thou, Lord of lyff!
I am Eve, Adamis wyff;
Thou hast soferyd strok and stryff,
ffor werkys that we wrought.
Thi mylde mercy haht alle forȝevyn,
Dethis dentys on the were drevyn,
Now with the, Lord, we xul levyn,—
Thi bryght blood hath us bowthe.
Johannes Baptista. I am thi cosyn, my name is John;
Thi woundys hath betyn the to the bon;
I babtyȝid the in flom Jordon,
And ȝaff thi body baptyȝe.
With thi grace now xul we gon
ffrom oure enmyes everychon,
And fyndyn myrthis many on,
In pley of paradyse.
Abraham. I am Abraham, fadyr trowe,
That reyned after Noes flowe;
A sory synne Adam gan sowe,
That clad us alle in care.
A sone that maydenys mylk hath sokyn,
And with his blood oure bonde hath brokyn,
Helle logge lyth unlokyn,
ffro fylthe with frende we fare.
Anima Christi. ffayre ffrendys, now be ȝe wunne,
On ȝow shyneth the sothfast sunne;
The gost that alle grevaunce hath gunne,
fful harde I xal hym bynde.
As wyckyd werme thou gunne apere,
To tray my chylderyn that were so dere,
Therfore, traytour, hevermore here
Newe peynes thou xalt evyr ffynde.
Thorwe blood I took of mannys kynde,
ffals devyl, I here the bynde,
In endles sorwe I the wynde,
Therin evyrmore to dwelle.
Now thou art bownde, thou mayst not fle,
ffor thin envyous cruelté
In endeles dampnacian xalt thou be,
And nevyr comyn out of helle.
Belialle. Alas! herrow! now am I bownde,
In helle gonge to ly on grounde,
In hendles sorwe now am I wounde,
In care evyr more to dwelle.
In helle logge I lyȝ alone,
Now is my joye awey al gone,
ffor alle fendys xul be my fone,
I xal nevyr com from helle.
Anima Christi. Now is ȝour ffoo boundyn in helle,
That evyr was besy ȝow for to qwelle;
Now wele I rysyn fflesche and ffelle,
that rent was for ȝour sake.
Myn owyn body that hynge on rode,
And be the Jewys nevyr so wode,
It xal aryse bothe flesche and blode;
My body now wyl I take.
Tunc transiet anima Christi ad resuscitandum corpus, quo resuscitato, dicat Jhesus,
Jhesus. Harde gatys have I gon,
And peynes sofryd many on,
Stomblyd at stake and at ston,
Nyȝ thre and thretty ȝere.
I lyght out of my faderes trone,
ffor to amende mannys mone;
My flesche was betyn to the bon,
My blood i-bledde clere.
ffor mannys love I tholyd dede,
And for mannys love I am rysyn up rede,
ffor man I have mad my body in brede,
His sowle for to fede.
Man, and thou lete meyns gone,
And wylt not folwyn me anone,
Suche a frende fyndyst thou nevyr none,
To help the at thi nede.
Salve, sancta parens! my modyr dere!
Alle heyl, modyr, with glad chere!
ffor now is aresyn, with body clere,
Thi sone that was delve depe.
This is the thrydde day that I ȝow tolde,
I xuld arysyn out of the cley so colde,—
Now am I here with brest ful bolde,
Therfore no more ȝe wepe.
Maria. Welcom, my Lord! welcom, my grace!
Welcome, my sone, and my solace!
I xal the wurchep in every place, —
Welcom, Lord God of myght!
Mekel sorwe in hert I leed,
Whan thou were leyd in dethis beed,
But now my blysse is newly breed,—
Alle men may joye this syght.
Jhesus. Alle this werlde that was forlorn,
Shal wurchepe ȝou bothe evyn and morn,
ffor had I not of ȝow be born,
Man had be lost in helle.
I was deed, and lyff I have,
And thorwe my dethe man do I save,
ffor now I am resyn out of my grave,
In hevyn man xal now dwelle.
Maria. A, dere sone! these wurdys ben goode,
Thou hast wel comfortyd my mornyng moode
Blyssyd be thi precyous bloode,
That mankende thus doth save!
Jhesus. Now, dere modyr, my leve I take;
Joye in hert and myrthe ȝe make,
ffor dethe is deed and lyff dothe wake,
Now I am resyn fro my grave!
Maria. ffarewel, my sone! farewel, my childe!
ffarewel, my Lorde! my God so mylde!
Myn hert is wele that ffyrst was whylde;
ffarewel, myn owyn dere love!
Now alle mankynde bethe glad with gle,
ffor deth is deed, as ȝe may se,
And lyff is reysed endles to be
In hevyn dwellynge above!
Whan my sone was nayled on tre,
Alle women myght rewe with me,
ffor grettere sorwe myght nevyr non be,
Than I dede suffyr i-wys.
But this joy now passyth alle sorwe,
That my childe suffryd in that hard morwe,
ffor now he is oure alderers borwe,
To brynge us alle to blys.
Tunc evigilabunt milites sepulcri, et dicet primus miles,
Awake! awake!
Hillis gyn quake,
And tres ben shake
Ful nere a too.
Stonys clevyd,
Wyttys ben revid,
Erys ben devid,
I am servid soo.
Secundus miles. He is aresyn, this is no nay,
That was deed and colde in clay, —
Now is he resyn belyve this day,
Grett woundyr it is to me.
He is resyn by his owyn myght,
And fforthe he gothe his wey ful ryght;
How xul we now us qwytte,
Whan Pylat doth us se?
Tertius miles. Lete us now go
Pilat ontoo,
And ryght evyn so,
As we have sayn,
The trewthe we say,
That out of clay,
He is resyn this day
That Jewys han slayn.
Quartus miles. I holde it best,
Lete us nevyr rest,
But go we prest
That it were done.
Alle heyl, Pilatt
In thin astat!
He is resyn up latt,
That thou gast dome.
Pilat. What! what! what! what!
Out upon the, why seyst thou that?
ffy upon the, harlat,
How darst thou so say?
Thou dost myn herte ryght grett greff!
Thou lyest upon hym, fals theff;
How xulde he rysyn ageyn to lyff,
That lay deed in clay?
Primus miles. ȝa, thow thou be nevyr so wrothe,
And of these tydandys nevyr so lothe,
ȝitt goodly on ground on lyve he gothe,
Qwycke and levynge man.
Yff thou haddyst a ben ther we ware,
In hert thou xuldyst han had gret care,
And of blysse a ben ryght bare,
Of colore bothe pale and whan.
Pilatus. Or ȝe come there,
ȝe dede alle swere,
To fyght in fere,
And bete and bynde.
Alle this was trayn,
ȝour wurdes wore vayn,
This is sertayn,
ȝow fals I fynde.
Secundus miles. Be the dethe the devyl deyd,
We were of hym so sore atreyd,
That ffor ffer we us down leyd
Ryght evyn upon oure syde.
Whan we were leyd upon the grounde,
Stylle we lay as we had be bounde,
We durst not ryse for a thousand pounde,
Ne not for alle this worlde so wyde.
Pilatus. Now ffy upon ȝour grett bost!
Alle ȝour wurchep is now lost;
In felde, in town, and in every cost,
Men may ȝow dyspravyn.
Now alle ȝour wurchep it is lorn,
And every man may ȝow we scorn,
And bydde ȝow go syttyn in the corn,
And chare awey the ravyn.
Tertius miles. ȝa, it was hyȝ tyme to leyn oure bost,
ffor whan the body toke aȝen the gost,
He wold a frayd many an ost,
Kynge, knyght, and knave.
ȝa, whan he dede ryse out of his lake,
Than was ther suche an erthe-quake,
That alle the worlde it gan to shake,
That made us ffor to rave.
Quartus miles. ȝa, ȝa, herke, ffelawys, what I xal say;
Late us not ses be nyght nor day,
But telle the trewthe, ryght as it lay,
In countré where we goo.
And than I dare ley myn heed,
That thei that Crystes lawys leed,
They wyl nevyr ses tyl they be deed,
His dethe that brought hym too.
Primus miles. Be Belyalle, this was now wele ment;
To this cowncelle lete us consent,
Lett us go tellyn with on assent,
He is resyn up this day.
Secundus miles. I grawnt therto, and that forthe right,
That he is resyn by his owyn myght,
ffor ther cam non, be day nor nyght,
To helpe hym owte of clay.
Pilatus. Now, jentyl seres, I yray ȝow alle
Abyde stylle a lytyl thralle,
Whylle that I myn cowncell calle,
And here of ther councelle.
Primus miles. Syr, att ȝour prayour we wyl abyde
Here in this place a lytel tyde,
But tary not to longe, ffor we must ryde, —
We may not longe dwelle.
Pilatus. Now, jentyl seres, I pray ȝow here,
Sum good cowncel me to lere.
ffor sertes, seres, without dwere,
We stounde in ryght grett dowte.
Cayphas. Now trewly, sere, I ȝow telle,
This matere is bothe ffers and ffelle,
Combros it is therwith to melle,
And evyl to be browth abowte.
Annas. Syr Pylat, thou grett justyse,
Thow thou be of wittys wyse,
ȝit herke fful sadly with good devyse,
What that thou xalt do.
I counsel the, be my reed,
This wundyrful tale pray hem to hede,
And upon this ȝeve hem good mede,
Bothe golde and sylver also.
And, sere, I xalle telle ȝow why,
In ȝoure erys prevyly,
Betweyn us thre serteynly,
Now herk, seres, in ȝour erys!
Hic faciant Pilatus, Cayphas, et Annas, privatim inter se, consilium; quo finito, dicat,
Annas. ffor mede dothe most in every qwest,
And mede is mayster, bothe est and west,
Now trewly, seres, I held this best,
With mede men may bynde berys.
Cayphas. Sekyr, sere, this counselle is good;
Pray these knyghtes to chaunge ther mood;
ȝeve then golde, ffeste, and ffood,
And that may chaunge ther wytt.
Pylatt. Seres, ȝoure good councel I xalle fulfylle:
Now, jentyl knyhtes, come hedyr me tylle,
I yray ȝow, seres, of ȝour good wylle,
No ferther that ȝe fflytt.
Jentyl knyhtes, I ȝow pray,
A bettyr sawe that ȝe say;
Sey ther he was cawth away
With his dyscyplis be nyght.
Sey he was with his dyscyplis ffett,
I wolde ȝe worn in ȝour sadelys ssett,
And have here gold in a purs knett,
And to Rome rydyth ryght.
Quartus miles. Now, Syr Pylatt,
We gon oure gatt,
We wylle not prate
No lengere now.
Now we have golde,
No talys xul be tolde
To whithtes on wolde,
We make the a vow.
Pilatus. Now, ȝe men of mythe,
As ȝe han hyght,
Evyn so forthe ryght,
ȝoure wurdys not falle.
And ȝe xul gon
With me anon,
Alle everychon
Into myn halle.
Primus miles. Now hens we go
As lyth as ro;
And ryght evyn so
As we han seyd,
We xul kepe counsel,
Where so evyr we dwelle
We xul no talys telle, —
Be not dysmayd.