Ludus Coventriæ

by Unknown

XXXVIII. THE PILGRIM OF EMAUS.

Hic incipit aparicio Cleophæ et Lucæ.

Cleophas. My brother, Lucas, I ȝow pray,

Plesynge to ȝow if that it be,

To the castel of Emawus, a lytyl way,

That ȝe vowchesaf to go with me.

Lucas. Alle redy, brother, I walke with the

To ȝone castelle with ryght good chere;

Evyn togedyr anon go we,

Brother Cleophas, we to in fere.

Cleophas. A! brother Lucas! I am sore mevyd,

Whan Cryst oure mayster comyth in my mynde;

Whan that I thynke how he was grevyd,

Joye in myn herte kan I non fynde;

He was so lowlye, so good, so kynde,

Holy of lyf, and meke of mood;

Alas! the Jewys thei were to blynde,

Hym for to kylle that was so good!

Lucas. Brothyr Cleophas, ȝe sey ful soth,

They were to cursyd and to cruelle;

And Judas that traytor, he was to lothe

ffor golde and sylvyr his mayster to selle.

The Jewys were redy hym for to qwelle,

With skorgys bete out alle his blood;

Alas! thei were to fers and ffelle;

Shamfully thei henge hym on a rood!

Cleophas. ȝa, betwen to thevys, alas! for shame,

They henge hym up with body rent;

Alas! alas! they were to blame,

To cursyd and cruel was ther intent.

Whan for thurste he was nere shent,

Eyȝil and galle thei ȝovyn hym to drynke;

Alas! for ruthe his dethe thei bent

In a ffowle place of horryble stynke!

Lucas. ȝa, and cawse in hym cowde they non fynde;

Alas, for sorwe! what was here thought?

And he dede helpe bothe lame and blynde,

And alle seke men that were hym browght:

Aȝens vice alwey he wrought,

Synfulle dede wold he nevyr do,

ȝit hym to kylle thei sparyd nought;

Alas! alas! why dede they so?

Jhesus. Welle ovyrtake, ȝe serys in same,

To walke in felachep with ȝow I pray.

Lucas. Welcom, serys, in Goddys name!

Of good felachep we sey not nay.

Jhesus. Qwhat is ȝour langage, to me ȝe say,

That ȝe have to-gedyr, ȝe to?

Sory and evysum ȝe ben alway,

ȝour myrthe is gon; why is it so?

Cleophas. Sere, me thynkyth thou art a pore pylgrym

Here walkynge be thiselfe alone,

And in the ceté of Jerusalem,

Thou knowyst ryght lytyl what ther is done;

ffor pylgrymys comyn and gon ryth sone,

Ryght lytyl whyle pylgrymes do dwelle;

In alle Jerusalem as thou hast gone,

I trowe no tydynges that thou canst telle.

Jhesus. Why, in Jherusalem what thynge is wrought?

What tydynges fro thens brynge ȝe?

Lucas. A! ther have they slayn a man for nought;

Gyltles he was, as we telle the;

An holy prophete with God was he,

Myghtyly in wurde and eke in dede;

Of God he had ryght grett poosté,

Amonge the pepyl his name gan sprede.

He hyght Jhesu of Naȝarethe,

A man he was of ryght grett fame;

The Jewys hym kylde with cruel dethe,

Without trespas or any blame:

Hym to scorne they had grett game,

And naylid hym streyte ontylle a tre;

Alas! alas! me thynkyth grett shame,

Without cawse that this xulde be.

Cleophas. ȝa, sere, and ryght grett troste in hym we had,

Alle Israel countré that he xuld save;

The thrydde day is this that he was clad

In coold cley and leyd in grave.

ȝitt woundyrful tydynges of hym we have,

Of women that sought hym beforn day-lythe;

Wethyr they sey truthe or ellys do rave,

We can not telle the trewe verdythe.

Whan Cryst in grave thei cowde not se,

They comyn to us and evyn thus tolde,

How that an aungelle seyd to them thre,

That he xuld leve with brest fful bolde.

ȝitt Petyr and John preve this wolde,

To Crystys grave they ran, thei tweyne;

And whan they come to the grave so coolde,

They fownde the women fful trewe serteyne.

Jhesus. A! ȝe ffonnys and slought of herte

ffor to beleve in holy Scrypture!

Have not prophetys with wurdys smerte,

Spoke be tokenys in signifure,

That Cryste xuld deye ffor ȝour valure,

And syth entre his joye and blys?

Why be ȝe of herte so dure,

And trust not in God that myghtful is?

Bothe Moyses and Aaron and othyr mo,

In holy Scrypture ȝe may rede it,

Of Crystis dethe thei spak also,

And how he xuld ryse out of his pitt.

Owt of ffeyth than why do ȝe fflitte,

Whan holy prophetys ȝow teche so pleyne?

Turne ȝour thought and chaunge ȝour witte,

And truste wele that Cryst dothe leve ageyne.

Lucas. Leve ageyn! man, be in pes;

How xulde a ded man evyr aryse?

I cowncelle the suche wurdys to ses,

ffor dowte of Pylat, that hyȝ justyce.

He was slayn at the gre asyse,

Be councelle of lordys many on;

Of suche langage take bettyr avyse,

In every company ther thou dost gon.

Christus. Trewthe dyd nevyr his maystyr shame;

Why xulde I ses than trewth to say?

Be Jonas the prophete I preve the same,

That was in a whallys body iij. nyghtis and iij. day;

So longe Cryst in his grave lay,

As Jonas was withinne the se;

His grave is brokyn that was of clay,

To lyff resyn aȝen now is he.

Cleophas. Sey nott so, man, it may not be,

Thow thyn exaumple be sumdele good;

ffor Jonas on lyve evyr more was he,

And Cryst was slayn upon a rood.

The Jewys on hym they were so wood,

That to his herte a spere they pyght,

He bled owt alle his herte blood;

How xulde the thanne ryse with myght?

Christus. Take hede at Aaron and his dede styk,

Whiche was ded of his nature,

And ȝit he floryschyd with flowres ful thyk,

And bare almaundys of grett valure.

The dede styk was signifure,

Holy Cryst that shamfully was deed and slayn,

As that dede styk bare frute ful pure,

So Cryst xuld ryse to lyve ageyn.

Lucas. That a deed styk ffrute xulde bere,

I merveyle sore therof i-wys;

But ȝitt hymsylf ffro dethe to rere,

And leve ageyn, more woundyr it is.

That he doth leve, I trost not this,

ffor he hath bled his blood so red;

But ȝitt of myrthe evyr moor I mys,

Whan I have mende that he is ded.

Christus. Why be ȝe so harde of truste?

Dede not Cryste reyse, thorwe his owyn myght,

Laȝarus that deed lay undyr the duste,

And stynkyd ryght foule, as I ȝow plyght?

To lyff Cryst reysid hym aȝen ful ryght

Out of his grave, this is serteyn;

Why may nat Cryste hymself thus qwyght,

And ryse from dethe to lyve ageyn?

Cleophas. Now trewly, sere, ȝour wurdys ben good,

I have in ȝow ryght grett delyght;

I pray ȝow, sere, with mylde mood,

To dwelle with us alle this nyght.

Christus. I must gon hens anon ful ryght,

ffor grett massagys I have to do;

I wolde abyde, yf that I myght,

But at this tyme I must hens go.

Lucas. ȝe xal not gon fro us this nyght,

It waxit alle derke, gon is the day,

The sonne is downe, lorn is the lyght,—

ȝe xal not gon from us away.

Christus. I may not dwelle, as I ȝow say,

I must this nyght go to my ffrende;

Therfore, good bretheryn, I ȝow pray,

Lett me not my wey to wende.

Cleophas. Trewly from us ȝe xal not go,

ȝe xal abyde with us here stylle;

ȝour goodly dalyaunce plesyth us so,

We may nevyr have of ȝow oure fylle.

We pray ȝow, sere, with herty wylle,

Alle nyght with us abyde and dwelle;

More goodly langage to talkyn us tylle,

And of ȝour good dalyaunce more ffor to telle.

Lucas. ȝa, brothyr Cleophas, be myn assent,

Lete us hym kepe with strenthe and myght;

Sett on ȝowre hand with good entent,

And pulle hym with us the wey welle ryght.

The day is done sere, and now it is nyght;

Why wole ȝe hens now from us go?

ȝe xal abyde, as I ȝow plyght;

ȝe xal not walke this nyght us ffro.

Cleophas. This nyght fro us ȝe go not away,

We xal ȝow kepe betwen us tweyne;

To us therfore ȝe say not nay,

But walke with us, the wey is pleyne.

Christus. Sythyn ȝe kepe me with myght and mayn,

With herty wylle I xal abyde.

Lucas. Of ȝour abydyng we be ful fayn,

No man more welkom in this werd wyde.

Cleophas. Off oure mayster Cryst Jhesu

ffor ȝe do speke so meche good,

I love ȝow hertyly, trust me trew,

He was bothe meke and mylde of mood.

Of hym to speke is to me food;

If ȝe had knowe hym, I dare wel say,

And in what plyght with hym it stood,

ȝe wold have thought on hym many a day.

Lucas. Many a day, ȝa, ȝa, i-wys

He was a man of holy levynge,

Thow he had be the childe of God in blys,

Bothe wyse and woundyrfulle was his werkynge.

But aftere ȝour labour and ferre walkynge,

Takyth this loff and etythe sum bred;

And than wyl we have more talkynge

Of Cryst oure maystyr, that is now ded.

Christus. Bethe mery and glad, with hert fful fre,

ffor of Cryst Jhesu, that was ȝour ffrende,

ȝe xal have tydynges of game and gle

Withinne a whyle, or ȝe hens wende.

With myn hand this bred I blys,

And breke it here, as ȝe do se;

I ȝeve ȝow parte also of this,

This bred to ete and blythe to be.

Hic subito discedat Christus ab oculis eorum.

A, mercy, God! what was oure happe?

Was not oure hert with love brennynge,

Whan Cryst oure mayster so nere oure lappe

Dede sitt and speke suche suete talkynge?

He is now quyk and man lyvenge,

That fyrst was slayn and put in grave;

Now may we chaunge alle oure mornynge,

ffor oure Lord is resyn his servauntes to save!

Lucas. Alas! for sorwe, what hap was this?

Whan he dyd walke with us in way,

He prevyd by Scripture, ryght wel i-wys,

That he was resyn from undyr clay.

We trustyd hym not, but evyr seyd nay;

Alas, for shame! why seyd we so?

He is resyn to lyve this day,

Out of his grave oure Lord is go!

Cleophas. Latt us here no lengere dwelle,

But to oure bretheryn the wey we wende;

With talys trewe to them we telle

That Cryst dothe leve, oure mayster and frende.

Lucas. I graunt therto with hert ful hende,

Lete us go walke forthe in owre way;

I am ful joyfulle in hert and mende,

That owre Lord levyth, that fyrst ded lay.

Cleophas. Now was it not goodly don

Of Cryst Jhesu, oure mayster dere;

He hath with us a large wey gon,

And of his uprysyng he dede us lere.

Whan he walkyd with us in fere,

And we supposyd hym bothe deed and colde,

That he was aresyn ffrom undyr here,

Be holy Scripture the trewthe he tolde.

Lucas. Ryght lovyngely don forsoth this was,

What myght owre mayster tyl us do more,

Than us to chere that fforthe dede pas,

And ffor his dethe we murnyd ful sore?

ffor love of hym owre myrthe was lore,

We were ffor hym ryght hevy in herte;

But now owre myrthe he doth restore,

ffor he is resyn bothe heyl and qwert.

Cleophas. That he is thus resyn I have grett woundyr,

An hevy ston ovyr hym ther lay;

How shulde he breke the ston asoundyr,

That was deed and colde in clay?

Every man this mervayle may,

And drede that Lorde of mekyl myght;

But ȝit of this no man sey nay,

ffor we have seyn hym with opyn syght.

Lucas. That he doth leve, I woot wel this,

He is aresyn with flesche and blood;

A levynge man forsothe he is,

That rewly was rent upon a rood.

Alle heyl! dere brothyr, and chaunge ȝour mood,

ffor Cryst doth levyn and hath his hele;

We walkyd in wey with Cryst so good,

And spak with hym wurdys fele.

Cleophas. Evyn tylle Emawus the grett castelle

ffrom Jerusalem with hym we went,

Syxti ffurlonge, as we ȝow telle,

We went with hym evyn passent.

He spak with us with good entent,

That Cryst xuld leve he tolde tylle us,

And previd it be Scripture verament;

Trust me trewe, it is ryght thus!

Lucas. ȝa, and whan he had longe spokyn us tylle,

He wold ffrom us a gon his way;

With strenght and myght we keptyn hym stylle,

And bred we tokyn hym to etyn in fay.

He brak the loff, as evyn on tway,

As ony sharpe knyff xuld kytt breed;

Therby we knew the trewthe that day

That Cryst dede leve and was not deed.

Petrus. Now trewly, serys, I have grett woundyr

Of these grete merveylis that ȝe us telle;

In brekynge of bred fful evyn asoundyr,

Oure mayster ȝe knew and Lord ryght welle.

ȝe sey Cryst levith that Jewys dyd qwelle,

Tylle us glad tydynges, this is serteyn,

And that oure mayster with ȝow so longe dede dwelle,

It dothe wel preve that he levith ageyn.

A! brother Thomas, we may be ryght glad

Of these gode novelle that we now have;

The grace of oure lorde God is over us alle sprad,

Oure Lord is resyn his servauntys to save.

Thomas. Be in pes, Petyr, thou gynnyst to rave,

Thy wurdys be wantowne and ryght unwyse;

How xulde a deed man, that deed lay in grave,

With qwyk fflesche and blood to lyve ageyn ryse?

Petrus. ȝis, Thomas, dowte the not, oure mayster is on lyve!

Record of Mawdelyn and of here systeres too,

Cleophas and Lucas, the trewthe ffor to contryve,

ffro Jerusalem to Emaws with hym dede they go.

Thomas. I may nevyr in hert trust that it is so;

He was ded on cros and colde put in pitt,

Kept with knyghtes iiij., his grave sealyd also,

How xulde he levyn ageyn that so streyte was shitt?

Petrus. Whan Mawdelyn dede telle us that Cryst was aresyn,

I ran to his grave, and John ran with me;

In trewthe ther we ffownde he lay not in presyn,

Gon out of his grave and on lyve than was he.

Therfore, dere brother Thomas, I wole rede the

Stedfastly thou trust that Cryst is not deed;

ffeythfully beleeve a qwyk man that he be,

Aresyn from his deth by myght of his Godhed.

Thomas. I may nevyr beleve these woundyr merveles,

Tyl that I have syght of every grett wounde,

And put in my ffyngyr in place of the nayles,

I xal nevyr beleve it ellys ffor no man on grownde.

And tylle that myn hand the sperys pytt hath fownde,

Whiche dede cleve his hert and made hym sprede his blood,

I xal nevyr beleve that he is qwyk and sownde,

In trewth whyl I knowe that he was dede on rood.

Petrus. Cryst be thi comforte and chawnge thi bad witt!

ffor ffeythe but thou have thi sowle is but lorn;

With stedfast beleve God enforme the ȝitt,

Of a meke mayde as he was ffor us born.

Christus. Pees be amonge ȝow, beholde how I am torn,

Take hede of myn handys, my dere brothyr Thomas.

Thomas. My God and my Lorde, nyght and every morn

I aske mercy, Lorde, ffor my grett trespas.

Christus. Beholde wele, Thomas, my woundys so wyde

Whiche I have sufferyd ffor alle mankynde;

Put thin hool hand into my ryght syde,

And in myn hert blood thin hand that thou wynde.

So ffeythffulle a ffrend were mayst thou fynde?

Be stedfast in feythe, beleve wel in me;

Be thou not dowtefful of me in thi mynde,

But trust that I leve that deed was on a tre.

Thomas. My Lord and my God, with syght do I se

That thou art now qwyk, whiche henge deed on rode;

More feythful than I ther may no man be,

ffor myn hand have I wasche in thi precyous blode.

Christus. ffor thou hast me seyn, therfore thi ffeyth is good,

But blyssyd be tho of this that have no syght,

And beleve in me, they ffor here meke mood

Shalle come into hefne, my blysse that is so bryght!

Thomas. As a ravaschyd man whos witt is alle gon,

Grett mornynge I make ffor my dredfful dowte;

Alas! I was dowteful that Crysst from undyr ston

Be his owyn grett myght no wyse myght gone owte.

Alas! what mevyd me thus in my thought?

My dowtefful beleve ryght sore me avexit,

The trewthe do I knowe that God so hath wrought,

Quod mortuus et sepultus nunc resurrexit!

He that was bothe deed and colde put in grave,

To lyve is arysen by his owyn myght;

In his dere herte blood myn hand wasche I have,

Where that the spere poynt was peynfully pyght.

I take me to feyth, fforsakynge alle unryght,

The dowte that I had fful sore me avexit,

ffor now have I seyn with ful opyn syght,

Quod mortuus et sepultus nunc resurrexit!

I trustyd no talys that were me tolde,

Tylle that myn hand dede in his hert blood wade;

My dowte dothe aprevyn Cryst levynge fful bolde,

And is a grett argument in feyth us to glade.

Thou man that seyst this, ffrom feyth nevyr thou ffade,

My dowte xal evyr chere the, that sore me avexit;

Truste wele in Cryst that suche meracle hath made,

Quod mortuus et sepultus nunc resurrexit!

The prechynge of Petir might not converte me,

Tylle I felyd the wounde that the spere dyde cleve;

I trustyd nevyr he levyd that deed was on a tre,

Tylle that his herte blood dede renne in my sleve.

Thus be my grett dowte oure feyth may we preve,

Behold my blody hand to feyth that me avexit,

Be syght of this myrroure ffrom feyth not remeve,

Quod mortuus et sepultus nunc resurrexit!

Thow that Mary Magdalyn in Cryst dede sone beleve,

And I was longe dowteful, ȝitt putt me in no blame;

ffor be my grett dowte oure ffeyth may we preve,

Aȝens alle tho eretykys that speke of Cryst shame.

Truste wel Jhesu Cryst, the Jewys kyllyd the same,

The ffende hath he fferyd oure feyth that evyr avexit;

To hevyn ȝow brynge and save ȝow alle in same,

That mortuus et sepultus iterum resurrexit! Amen.