Englands Antiphon | Page 4

his birth. This of course rendered her incapable of perfect sympathy with other mothers. It is a lovely invention, then, that he should thus commend mothers to his mother, telling her to judge of the pains of motherhood by those which she now endured. Still he fails to turn aside her thoughts. She is thinking still only of her own and her son's suffering, while he continues bent on making her think of others, until, at last, forth comes her prayer for all women. This seems to me a tenderness grand as exquisite.
The outburst of the chorus of the Faithful in the last stanza but one,--
When he rose, then fell her sorrow,
is as fine as anything I know in the region of the lyric.
"Stand well, mother, under rood;[1] the cross.?Behold thy son with glad�� mood; cheerful.?Blithe mother mayst thou be."?"Son, how should I blith�� stand??I see thy feet, I see thy hand?Nail��d to the hard tree."
"Mother, do way thy wepynde: give over thy weeping. I thol�� death for mankind-- suffer.?For my guilt thole I none."?"Son, I feel the dede stounde; death-pang.?The sword is at my heart's ground bottom.?That me byhet Simeon." foreshowed.
"Mother, mercy! let me die,?For Adam out of hell buy, for to buy Adam.?And his kin that is forlore." lost.?"Son, what shall me to rede?[2]?My pain paineth me to dede: death.?Let me die thee before!"
"Mother, thou rue all of thy bairn; rue thou_; _all is only expletive Thou wash away the bloody tern; wash thou; tears. It doth me worse than my ded." hurts me more; death. "Son, how may I ter��s werne? turn aside tears. I see the bloody stream��s erne flow.?From thy heart to my fet." feet.
"Mother, now I may thee seye, say to thee.?Better is that I one deye die.?Than all mankind to hell�� go."?"Son, I see thy body byswongen, lashed.?Feet and hands throughout stongen: pierced through and through. No wonder though me be woe." woe be to me.
"Mother, now I shall thee tell,?If I not die, thou goest to hell:?I thole death for thy sake." endure.?"Son, thou art so meek and mynde, thoughtful.?Ne wyt me not, it is my kind[3]?That I for thee this sorrow make."
"Mother, now thou mayst well leren learn.?What sorrow have that children beren, they have; bear. What sorrow it is with child�� gon." to go.?"Sorrow, I wis! I can thee tell!?But it be the pain of hell except.?More sorrow wot I none."
"Mother, rue of mother-care, take pity upon. For now thou wost of mother-fare, knowest.?Though thou be clean maiden mon."[4]?"Son��, help at alle need?All�� those that to me grede, cry.?Maiden, wife, and full wymmon." woman with child.
"Mother, may I no longer dwell;?The time is come I shall to hell;?The third day I rise upon."?"Son, I will with thee founden; set out, go. I die, I wis, for thy wounden:?So sorrowful death nes never none." was not never none.
When he rose, then fell her sorrow;?Her bliss sprung the third morrow:
Blithe mother wert thou tho! then.
Lady, for that ilk�� bliss, same.
Beseech thy son of sunn��s lisse: for sin's release. Thou be our shield against our foe. Be thou.
Blessed be thou, full of bliss!?Let us never heaven miss,?Through thy sweet�� Son��s might!?Loverd, for that ilk�� blood, Lord,?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 wound��s 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 arear��d;?His friend��s are afear��d,?And clingeth so the clay;[6]?The rood stands in stone,?Mary stands her on,?And saith Welaway!
When I thee behold?With eyen bright�� 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