| |
TextI
syke when Y singe
For sorewe that Y se,
When Y with wypinge
Biholde vpon the tre |
TranslationI
sigh when I sing
for the sorrow that I see,
When I, shedding tears,
Look at the Cross, |
| 5 |
Ant se Iesu the suete
Is herte blod forlete
For the loue of me.
Ys woundes waxen weete,
Thei wepen stille ant mete; |
And see sweet Jesus
Shed his heart's blood
For my love.
His wounds grow wet,
They weep quietly and gently; |
| 10
|
Marie, reweth the. Heghe
vpon a doune
Ther al folk hit se may,
A mile from vch toune,
Aboute the midday, |
Mary, it grieves you.
High on a
hill
where everyone can see it,
A mile from any town,
About midday,
|
| 15 |
The rode is vp arered;
His frendes aren afered
Ant clyngeth so the clay.
The rode stond in stone;
Marie stont hire one |
The cross is raised up;
His friends are frightened
And are chilled with fear.
The cross stands in stone;
Mary stands alone |
| 20 |
Ant seith 'Weilawei!' When
Y the biholde
With eyghen bryhte bo,
Ant thi bodi colde,
Thi ble waxeth blo; |
And says 'Alas!' When
I look at you,
With two bright eyes,
And your body is cold,
Your face grows pale; |
| 25 |
Thou hengest al of blode
So heghe vpon the rode
Bituene theues two.
Who may syke more?
Marie syketh sore |
You hang covered in blood
So high on the cross,
Between two thieves.
Who can sigh more?
Mary sighs deeply |
| 30 |
Ant siht al this wo. The
naylles beth to stronge,
The smythes are to sleye,
Thou bledest al to longe,
The tre is al to heyghe, |
And sees all this suffering.
The nails
are too strong,
The smiths are too skilled,
You bleed far too long,
The cross is far too high,
|
| 35 |
The stones beoth al wete;
Alas! Iesu the suete,
For non frend hast thou non
Bote Seint Iohan mournynde,
Ant Marie wepynde |
The stones are all wet;
Alas! sweet Jesus!
For you have no friend at all
Except for St John grieving,
And Mary weeping |
| 40 |
For pyne that the ys on. Ofte
when I syke
Ant makie my mon,
Wel ille thah me like
Wonder is hit non |
For the torment you suffer.
Often when
I sigh
And make my lament,
If it gives me pain
It is no wonder
|
| 45 |
When Y se honge heghe
Ant bittre pynes dreghe
Iesu my lemmon;
His wondes sore smerte,
The spere al to is herte |
When I see hanging high
and suffering bitter pains
Jesus my lover;
His wounds hurting cruelly,
The spear piercing straight to his heart |
| 50 |
Ant thourh is sydes gon. Ofte
when Y syke
With care Y am thourhsoht;
When Y wake, Y wyke;
Of serewe is al mi thoht. |
And through his sides.
Often when
I sigh
I am pierced through with grief;
When I lie awake, I pine;
All my thoughts are of sorrow.
|
| 55 |
Alas, men beth wode
That suereth by the Rode
Ant selleth him for noht
That bohte vs out of synne.
He bring vs to wynne |
Alas, those men are mad
Who swear by the Cross
And betray him for nothing
Who redeemed us from of sin.
May he bring us to bliss |
| 60 |
That hath vs duere boht.
|
Who bought us dearly.
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