Ludus Coventriæ

by Unknown

XXXVII. CHRIST APPEARING TO MARY.

Maria Magdalene goth to the grave, and wepyth, and seyth,

ffor hertyly sorwe myn herte dothe breke,

With wepynge terys I wasche my face;

Alas! ffor sorwe I may not speke,

My Lorde is gon that hereinne wase:

Myn owyn dere Lorde and kynge of gras,

That vij. develys ffro me dyd take,

I kan nat se hym, alas! alas!

He is stolyn awey owt of this lake.

Aungelus. Woman, that stondyst here alone?

Why dost thou wepe, and morne, and wepe so sore?

What cawse hast thou to make suche mone?

Why makyst thou suche sorwe, and wherefore?

Maria Magdalene. I have gret cawse to wepe evyrmore;

My Lord is take out of his grave,

Stolyn awey and fro me lore,

I kannot wete where hym to have.

Hic parum deambulet a sepulcro, dicens,

Alas! alas! what xal I do?

My Lord awey is fro me take;

A, woful wrecche! whedyr xal I go?

My joye is gon owth of this lake.

Jhesus. Woman, suche mornynge why dost thou make?

Why is thi chere so hevy and badde?

Why dost thou sythe so sore and qwake?

Why dost thou wepe so sore and sadde?

Maria Magdalene. A grettyr cawse had nevyr woman,

ffor to wepe bothe nyth and day,

Than I myself have in serteyn,

And for to sorwyn evyr and ay.

Alas! ffor sorwe myn hert doth blede,

My Lorde is take fro me away;

I muste nedys sore wepe and grede;

Where he is put I kan not say.

But, jentyl gardener, I pray to the,

If thou hym took out of his grave,

Telle me qwere I may hym se,

That I may go my Lorde to have.

Jhesus. MARIA.

Maria Magdalene. A! mayster and Lorde to the I crave,

As thou art Lord and kynge of blys! [Spectans.

Graunt me, Lord, and thou vowchesave

Thyn holy ffete that I may kys!

Jhesus. Towche me nott as ȝett, Mary,

ffor to my fadyr I have not ascende;

But to my bretheryn in hast the hyȝ,

With these gode wurdys here care amende.

Sey to my bretheryn that I intende

To stey to my fadyr and to ȝowre,

To oure Lord both God and frende,

I wyl ascende to hevyn towre.

In hevyn to ordeyn ȝow a place,

To my ffadyr now wyl I go;

To merthe, and joye, and grett solace,

And endeles blys to brynge ȝow to.

ffor man I sufferyd both schame and wo,

More spyteful deth nevyr man dyd take,

ȝit wyl I ordeyn ffor al this, lo,

In hevyn an halle for mannys sake!

Maria Magdalyn. Gracyous Lord, at ȝour byddyng,

To alle my bretheryn I xal go telle

How that ȝe be man levynge,

Quyk and qwethynge of flesche and ffelle.

Now alle hevynes I may expelle,

And myrth and joy now take to me;

My Lord that I have lovyd so wele,

With opyn syght I dede hym se.

Whan I sowght my Lord in grave,

I was fful sory and ryght sad;

ffor syght of hym I myght non have,

ffor mornynge sore I was nere mad.

Grettere sorwe ȝit nevyr whithe had,

Whan my Lord awey was gon,

But now in herte I am so glad,

So grett a joy nevyr wyff had non.

How myght I more gretter joye have,

Than se that Lorde with opyn syght,

The whiche my sowle from synne to save,

ffrom develys sefne he mad me qwyght?

There kan no tounge my joye expres,

Now I have seyn my Lorde on lyve;

To my bretheryn I wyl me dresse,

And telle to hem a non ryght belyve:

With opyn speche I xal me shryve,

And telle to hem, with wurdys pleyn

How that Cryst ffrom deth to lyve,

To endles blys is resyn ageyn.

Bretheryn, al blyth ȝe be,

ffor joyful tydynges tellyn I kan;

I saw oure Lorde Cryst, lyste wel to me,

Of flesche and bon quyk levynge man.

Beth glad and joyful, as for than,

ffor trost me trewly it is ryght thus,

Mowthe to mowthe, this is sertayn,

I spak ryght now with Cryst Jhesus.

Petrus. A woundyrful tale forsothe is this:

Ever onowryd oure Lorde mote be!

We pray the, Lord, and kynge of blys,

Onys thi presence that we may se!

Ere thu ascende to thi magesté,

Gracyous God, if that ȝe plese,

Late us have sum syght of the,

Oure careful hertes to sett in ease! Amen!

Explicit apparicio Mariæ Magdalen.