_Maria Magdalyn._ Gracyous Lord, at ȝour byddyng, To alle my bretheryn I xal go telle How that ȝe be man levynge, Quyk and qwethynge of flesche and ffelle. Now alle hevynes I may expelle, And myrth and joy now take to me; My Lord that I have lovyd so wele, With opyn syght I dede hym se. Whan I sowght my Lord in grave, I was fful sory and ryght sad; ffor syght of hym I myght non have, ffor mornynge sore I was nere mad. Grettere sorwe ȝit nevyr whithe had, Whan my Lord awey was gon, But now in herte I am so glad, So grett a joy nevyr wyff had non. How myght I more gretter joye have, Than se that Lorde with opyn syght, The whiche my sowle from synne to save, ffrom develys sefne he mad me qwyght? There kan no tounge my joye expres, Now I have seyn my Lorde on lyve; To my bretheryn I wyl me dresse, And telle to hem a non ryght belyve: With opyn speche I xal me shryve, And telle to hem, with wurdys pleyn How that Cryst ffrom deth to lyve, To endles blys is resyn ageyn. Bretheryn, al blyth ȝe be, ffor joyful tydynges tellyn I kan; I saw oure Lorde Cryst, lyste wel to me, Of flesche and bon quyk levynge man. Beth glad and joyful, as for than, ffor trost me trewly it is ryght thus, Mowthe to mowthe, this is sertayn, I spak ryght now with Cryst Jhesus. _Petrus._ A woundyrful tale forsothe is this: Ever onowryd oure Lorde mote be! We pray the, Lord, and kynge of blys, Onys thi presence that we may se! Ere thu ascende to thi magesté, Gracyous God, if that ȝe plese, Late us have sum syght of the, Oure careful hertes to sett in ease! _Amen!_ _Explicit apparicio Mariæ Magdalen._ XXXVIII. THE PILGRIM OF EMAUS. _Hic incipit aparicio Cleophæ et Lucæ._ _Cleophas._ My brother, Lucas, I ȝow pray, Plesynge to ȝow if that it be, To the castel of Emawus, a lytyl way, That ȝe vowchesaf to go with me. _Lucas._ Alle redy, brother, I walke with the To ȝone castelle with ryght good chere; Evyn togedyr anon go we, Brother Cleophas, we to in fere. _Cleophas._ A! brother Lucas! I am sore mevyd, Whan Cryst oure mayster comyth in my mynde; Whan that I thynke how he was grevyd, Joye in myn herte kan I non fynde; He was so lowlye, so good, so kynde, Holy of lyf, and meke of mood; Alas! the Jewys thei were to blynde, Hym for to kylle that was so good! _Lucas._ Brothyr Cleophas, ȝe sey ful soth, They were to cursyd and to cruelle; And Judas that traytor, he was to lothe ffor golde and sylvyr his mayster to selle. The Jewys were redy hym for to qwelle, With skorgys bete out alle his blood; Alas! thei were to fers and ffelle; Shamfully thei henge hym on a rood!