Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

Piés e meyns par mi piercé?
Riant ne serra nul trové,
Que ly averount regard;
Molt serra hidous quant jugera ;
N'y avera nul qe noise fra ;
Chescun serra rewerdoné
Come il avera deservy gré.
En grant joie les bons irrount,
E là sauntz fyn remeindrount,
Où totes maneres de joies sunt.
Pur ce vus vueil-je or garnyr,
Que vus pensez à Dieu servyr,
E la joie graunde aver
Que nulle lange puet counter.
Ycel nus doint ly Salveour,
De cel e terre empereour!
Amen, amen, pur sa doucour!

XXVII.

[Fol. 79, ro.]

"STOND wel, moder, under rode, By-holt thy sone with glade mode;

blythe, moder, myht thou be." "Sone, hou shulde y blithe stonde ? Y se thin fet, y se thin honde,

nayled to the harde tre."

"Moder, do wey thy wepinge: Y thole deth for mankynde,

for my gult thole y non."

66 Sone, Ꭹ fele the dede stounde, The suert is at myn herte grounde, that me byhet Symeon."

"Moder, merci, let me deye, For Adam out of helle beye, ant his kun that is for-lore." "Sone, what shal me to rede? My peyne pyneth me to dede, lat me deze the by-fore!"

66

Moder, thou rewe al of thi bern, Thou wosshe a-wai the blody tern,

hit doth me worse then my ded." "Sone, hou may y teres werne? Y se the blody stremes erne from thin herte to my fet."

"Moder, nou y may the seye, Betere is that ich one deye,

66

then al monkunde to helle go."

Sone, y se thi bodi byswngen,

Fet ant honden thourh-out stongen, no wonder thah me be wo."

"Moder, now y shal the telle, zef y ne deze, thou gost to helle,

y thole ded for thine sake."

G

"Sone, thou art so meke ant mynde, Ne wyt me naht, hit is my kynde,

that Ꭹ for the this sorewe make."

"Moder, nou thou miht wel leren, Whet sorewe haveth that children beren, whet sorewe hit is with childe gon." "Sorewe y-wis, y con the telle; Bote hit be the pyne of helle,

66

more sorewe wot y non."

Moder, rew of moder kare,

For nou thou wost of moder fare,

thou thou be clene mayden mon." "Sone, help at alle nede

Alle tho that to me grede,

maiden, wif, ant fol wymmon." "Moder, may y no lengore duelle, The time is come y shal to helle,

the thridde day y ryse upon." "Sone, y wil with the founden, Y deye y-wis for thine wounden,

so soreweful ded nes never non."

When he ros, tho fel hire sorewe, Hire blisse sprong the thridde morewe, blythe moder were thou tho.

Levedy, for that ilke blisse,

Bysech thi sone of sunnes lisse,

thou be oure sheld azeyn oure fo.

Blessed be thou, ful of blysse,
Let us never hevene misse,

thourh thi suete sones myht! Loverd, for that ilke blod,

That thou sheddest on the rod,

thou bring us in to hevene lyht AMEN.

XXVIII.

[Fol. 79, vo.]

JESU, for thi muchele miht, thou 5ef us of thi grace, That we mowe dai ant nyht thenken o thi face.

In

myn herte hit doth me god, When y thenke on Jesu blod, that ran doun bi ys syde, From his herte doun to his fot, For ous he spradde is herte blod, his wondes were so wyde.

When y thenke on Jhesu ded,

min herte over-werpes,

Mi soule is won so is the led

for

my fole werkes.

Ful wo is that ilke mon,

That Jhesu ded ne thenkes on,

what he soffrede so sore!

For my synnes y wil wete,

Ant alle y wyle hem for-lete

nou ant evermore.

Mon that is in joie ant blis, ant lith in shame ant synne, He is more then un-wis

that ther-of nul nout blynne. Al this world hit geth a-way, Me thynketh hit nezyth domesday, nou man gos to grounde; Jhesu Crist that tholede ded,

He may oure soules to hevene led, withinne a lutel stounde.

Thah thou have al thi wille, thenk on Godes wondes, For that we ne shulde spille, he tholede harde stoundes; Al for mon he tholede ded, 3yf he wyle leve on is red,

ant leve his folie,

We shule have joie ant blis,

More then we conne seien y-wys

in Jesu compagnie.

Jhesu, that wes milde ant fre,

wes with spere y-stonge;

He was nailed to the tre,

with scourges y-swongen.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »