King Horn, Floriz and Blauncheflur, The Assumption of Our Lady
General
King Horn, Floriz and Blauncheflur, The Assumption of Our Lady
English poetry -- Middle English, 1100-1500; Mary, Blessed Virgin, Saint -- Legends; Romances, English
¶ Whan ih{es}u c{ri}st was dou{n} on þe rode
And þolede deþ for oure goode,
He callide to hym seynt Iohan,
That was his fleschli kynnes man. 16
His moder swete he dide also;
He callid no men mo him to.
And sede, “wif, lo her þi child,
Þ{a}t on þe rode is ispild.
[_No gap in MS._]
Nu ihc am ho{n}ged on þis tre,
Wel sore ihc wot hit reweþ þe. 20
Mine fet {and} honden of blod [buþ red];
Biþute gult ih[c] þolie þis ded.
And seide, “wo{m}man, lo here þi sone,
And, man, take hure to mod{er} i{n} good wone. 20
And þenkeþ on my sorwe nowe
How I hange here abowe,
How I hange apon{e} a tre,
Ful sore, I wote, hit reweþ þee. 24
[Sidenote: [leaf 62, back]]
Myn feet, myn hondes, of blode ben rede;
With owte gilt I þole dede.
Mine men þ{a}t aȝte me to loue,
For whan ihc co{m} fram heuene abuue, 24
Me haueþ idon þis ilke schame,
Ihc naue no gult; hi buþ to blame.
To mi fader ihc bidde mi bone
Þ{a}t he forȝiue hit hem welsone.” 28
But þei haue wille to louen me
For wham I hange on þis tree. 28
The Iewis me deden mychel schame;
Ther of hadde I neu{er} blame.”
[Headnote: _Jesus entrusts Mary to John._]
¶ Marie stod {and} sore weop;
Þe t{er}res feolle to hire fet.
No wu{n}der nas þeȝ heo wepe sore;
Of soreȝe ne miȝte heo wite nomore, 32
Whe{n}ne he þ{a}t of hire nam blod {and} fless,
Also his suete wille was,
He{n}g Inayled on þe treo.
++MArie his moder sore dide wepe;
The teeres fellen at hure fete. 32
Nas no wondre þouȝ sche wepe sore;
Of sorwe wist sche neu{er} more.
When he þat of hure flesche nam,
For his holi swete nam, 36
Honge þ{er} nailed to a tre,
“Alas, my sone,” seide heo, 36
“Hu may ihc liue? hu may þis beo?
Hu mai ihc al þis soreȝe iseo?
Ne cuþe ihc neure of soreȝe noȝt;
Mi leue sone, wat hastu þoȝt? 40
Hou schal ihc lyue biþute þe?
Leue sone, what seistu me?”
“Alas, my sone,” þo saide sche,
“How mai I lyue? how mai I bene?
How mai I þis sorwe ysene? 40
Neu{er} ere wist I of sorwe nouȝt;
Leue sone, what hauest þou þouȝt?
How schal I leue w{i}t{h} oute þee?
Leue sone, what saist þou to me?” 44
¶ Þo spac ih{es}u wordes gode,
Þ{er} he heng vpon þe rode, 44
{And} sede to his moder dere,
“Ihc schal þe teche a trewe ifere,
Þ{a}t trewliche schal loky þe,
Þe while þ{a}t þu in erþe be.” 48
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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