That thou sheddest on the rood, Thou bring us into heaven's light. AMEN.
I think my readers will not be sorry to have another of a similar character.
I sigh when I sing
For sorrow that I see,
When I with weeping
Behold upon the tree,
And see Jesus the sweet
His heart's blood for-lete yield quite. For the love of me. His woundés waxen wete, wet. They weepen still and mete:[5] Mary rueth thee. pitieth.
High upon a down, hill. Where all folk it see may, A mile from each town, About the mid-day, The rood is up arearéd; His friendés are afearéd, And clingeth so the clay;[6] The rood stands in stone, Mary stands her on, And saith Welaway!
When I thee behold
With eyen brighté bo, eyes bright both. And thy body cold— Thy ble waxeth blo, colour: livid. Thou hangest all of blood bloody. So high upon the rood Between thieves tuo—two. Who may sigh more? Mary weepeth sore, And sees all this woe.
The nails be too strong,
The smiths are too sly; skilful. Thou bleedest all too long; The tree is all too high; The stones be all wete! wet. Alas, Jesu, the sweet! For now friend hast thou none,
But Saint John to-mournynde, mourning greatly. And Mary wepynde, weeping. For pain that thee is on.
Oft when I sike sigh. And makie my moan, Well ill though me like, Wonder is it none.[7] When I see hang high And bitter pains dreye, dree, endure. Jesu, my lemmon! love. His woundés sore smart, The spear all to his heart And through his side is gone.
Oft when I syke, sigh. With care I am through-sought; searched through. When I wake I wyke; languish. Of sorrow is all my thought. Alas! men be wood mad. That swear by the rood swear by the cross. And sell him for nought That bought us out of sin. He bring us to wynne, may he: bliss. That hath us dear bought!
I add two stanzas of another of like sort.
Man that is in glory and bliss,
And lieth in shame and sin,
He is more than unwis unwise. That thereof will not blynne. cease. All this world it goeth away, Me thinketh it nigheth Doomsday; Now man goes to ground: perishes. Jesus Christ that tholed ded endured death. He may our souls to heaven led lead. Within a little stound. moment.
Jesus, that was mild and free,
Was with spear y-stongen; stung or pierced. He was nailéd to the tree, With scourges y-swongen. lashed. All for man he tholed shame, endured. Withouten guilt, withouten blame, Bothé day and other[8]. Man, full muchel he loved thee, much. When he woldé make thee free, And become thy brother.
The simplicity, the tenderness, the devotion of these lyrics is to me wonderful. Observe their realism, as, for instance, in the words: "The stones beoth al wete;" a realism as far removed from the coarseness of a Rubens as from the irreverence of too many religious teachers, who will repeat and repeat again the most sacred words for the merest logical ends until the tympanum of the moral ear hears without hearing the sounds that ought to be felt as well as held holiest. They bear strongly, too, upon the outcome of feeling in action, although doubtless there was the same tendency then as there is now to regard the observance of church-ordinances as the service of Christ, instead of as a means of gathering strength wherewith to serve him by being in the world as he was in the world.
From a poem of forty-eight stanzas I choose five, partly in order to manifest that, although there is in it an occasional appearance of what we should consider sentimentality, allied in nature to that worship of the Virgin which is more a sort of French gallantry than a feeling of reverence, the sense of duty to the Master keeps pace with the profession of devotedness to him. There is so little continuity of thought in it, that the stanzas might almost be arranged anyhow.
Jesu, thy love be all my thought;
Of other thing ne reck I nought; reckon. I yearn to have thy will y-wrought, For thou me hast well dear y-bought.
Jesu, well may mine hearté see
That mild and meek he must be,
All unthews and lustés flee, bad habits. That feelen will the bliss of thee. feel.
For sinful folk, sweet Jesus,
Thou lightest from the high house;
Poor and low thou wert for us.
Thine heart's love thou sendest us.
Jesu, therefore beseech I thee
Thy sweet love thou grant me;
That I thereto worthy be,
Make me worthy that art so free. thou that art.
Jesu, thine help at my ending!
And in that dreadful out-wending, going forth of the spirit. Send my soul good weryyng, guard. That I ne dread none evil thing.
I shall next present a short lyric, displaying more of art than this last, giving it now in the old form, and afterwards in a new one, that my reader may see both how it looks in its original dress, and what it means.
Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare,
Ofte y sike ant mourne sare, sigh; sore. When hit cometh in my thoht Of this worldes joie, how hit goth al to noht.
Now hit is, ant now hit nys, it is not. Also hit ner nere y-wys,[9] That moni mon seith soth hit ys,[10] Al goth bote Godes wille, Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle. though it pleases us ill.
Al that gren me graueth grene,[11]
Nou hit faleweth al by-dene; grows yellow: speedily. Jhesu, help that hit be sene, seen. Ant shild us from helle; For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.[12]
I will now give a modern version of it, in which I have spoiled the original of course, but I hope as little as well may be.
Winter wakeneth all my care;
Now the trees are waxing bare;
Oft my sighs my grief declare[13]
When it comes into my thought
Of this world's joy, how it goes all to nought.
Now it is, and now 'tis not—
As it ne'er had been, I wot.
Hence many say—it is man's lot:
All goeth but God's will;
We
