AT SEXT.
O man, at sext luke with þi inwart sycht,
How þai þi Lord led to confusioun;
Mak rowme to reuth, a place for piete dycht,
Quhill þat þi hert haue perfit compassioun!
His nychtlie pane, his daly dispectioun
Thai euer refreschit with new torment gane;
To eik his wo þe moir þai leuch his pane.
Pilat sitand in place of jugement,
His wif till him sone send ane messinger,
Quhilk bad him sone þat he suld nocht consent.
Scho said: þis nycht I haue bene rycht affeir,
Into þis nycht a visioun couth appeir
Into my sleip; thairfor I trow he be
Richt innocent of all iniquite.
To tholl þe dome of ded þai brocht him out
Into ane place, quhair Pilat held þe law.
Than þe Jowis all cryit with a schowt
To gar him de, als sone as þai him saw.
Thai think so lang, quhill þai to ded him draw,
That impacience compellit þame to cry:
Tollie, tollie him on þe croce! crucify!
Pilat saw, he couth nocht cum gude speid
Him to saif but tribulance of þe pepill,
And of his office becauss he had sic dreid,
Barabam he gart be gevin þam till;
Jhesus scurgit deliuerit in thair will;
Syne wesche his handis and callit him innocent,
For in his ded he hes gevin na consent.
O wod blindnes, the quhilk þat blind so maid
The Jowis ene, þat ressoun put þaim fra.
Thair blind inwy þair awne lawis gart faid,
Quhilk þam forbad all innocentis to sla.
Thai wrang þair freind to confort þair faa;
Thai slay thair Lord, quhilk did riss fra pane,
And loussit the theif quik to sla agane.
The purpour claith, quhilk clewit fast to his hid,
With his awne blude þai raif of him of force.
His tender hid þai brak fra bak to syd,
Na part is haill of all his tender corss.
Cled him agane, put on his bak a croce,
Syne led him furth as condampnit to ded,
Full bludy woundit baith fra fute till heid.
His tender bak beris þat hevy ,
Frettis þe flesche and birssis all his banis.
Thoucht he be faynt, þai haue na gret piete,
Thai cruell men to rusche at him at anis.
To confort him amang þaim neid is.
To gar him ryn all deligence þai ma;
He is so mait, þai may no forthir ga.
Quhen he wes tyrit and mycht do no mair,
He wald full fane haue refreschit his bak;
He schupe to rest at a stane þat wes þair,
Bot þai wald nocht þat he suld tary mak;
Thairfor Symeoun þai compellit to tak
His croce to beir þat þai mycht fast him leid,
To Mont Calwary to put him to þe ded.
Mony followit of diuerss nacioun,
Quhilk to þe ciete come in tyme of pasche;
Sum makand scorne, sum dirisioun,
Sum drawand him, sum spitand in his face.
To se þis prince it wes a piete, allace;
On euery side sustene fell torment,
Syne fra all syn beand so innocent.
To þe wemen, þat maid sa hie a mene,
He turnit him and schew þe prophecy,
How þat þe ciete of Jerusalem
Suld be distroyit for þe innoirmate.
Said: Dochteris of Jerusalem, let be!
Gret nocht on me, bot on ȝow and ȝour seid,
Gret and mak cair for þis rycht cruell ded.
For the day sall cum þat ȝe sall say:
Wemen ar blist þat na barnis beris.
Ȝe sall se hillis fall and hid in wa,
Quhill þe Romanis haue cessit fra þair weris.
Thir cruell panis our hertis full fell deris,
For gif but causs Crist wes slane cruelly,
O Lord, quhat sall worth of ws, þat ar gilty?
Thai saw in ded compleit þis prophacy
The twa and fourty ȝer efter his passioun;
For quhen þe Romanis segit þe ciete,
The wemen eit þair barnis in þe toun.
Jerusalem wes brint and castin doun,
Ten hundreth thousand of þe Jowis slane,
Nyne thousand and sevin led quik with þame.
And as Crist wes for thretty pennyis sauld,
Quhilk all þe warld redemit with his ,
Sa thretty Jowis wer for a penny tauld,
The Romanis .
Sa þus endit þe malice and þe feid
Aganis Crist, quhilk held saikleslie;
Thairfor be wair and leif in cherite!
Twa thewis with him to þe ded þai led
To Mont Calwary, as he gilty had bene;
Bitter wyne myxt with gall þai had,
That þai him gaif to slokin his thristing.
He taist it and put it fra him syne,
Drank nocht of it, þai him disrayit agane
To mydouris, maid him eikit in pane.
Quhen þai his clething tuke fra him agane,
Thai drew þe bluide fra all his precius woundis.
Fra heid to fute now all is bot in pane,
For of his flesche þair is na place þat sound is.
His blissit body, his nobill hert throw stoundis;
Wald ded now tak him, he come now into tyme
Him for to louss fra his gret wa and pyne.
O pyne, vnkind quhy art þow mair till him
Than ony knycht þou had befor in hand?
To breik the law suld at him begyn,
Quhilk be trespas is subiect to þi wand:
Thow art nocht just, þi law can nocht stand,
For thow hes grace oftyme to synneris sent,
And of his wa thow will nocht mak an end.
Apoune þe croce all nakit þai him ,
With sa gret force, quhill þai neir hand him sla;
With irne nalis, quhen þai in strik sa fest
Throw þe handis, þan he begouth to pray,
Sayand: Fader, na vengence on þame ta,
Bot for my saik forȝet þair cruelte,
For þame blindis þair gret iniquite.
On lenth and breid with scharpe cordis þai tak
That nobill corps, quhill þai þe banis twyn;
Now all the lethis on his tender bak
Thai sa depart, quhill þat his ene wox dyme;
Fra heid to fute þai brak and ryme,
Twynnis his joyntouris, and rivis all his banis,
Birssis his breist, and all his bowellis panis.
Mony panis he tholit of befor,
Bot to þis pane is na pane to be peir;
Now he is mait, now he may do no mair,
Now flesch blude and banis is all on steir;
Now Dede fra pane hes tane him presoneir,
Quhilkis him handillis full fair in every part,
Fra heid to fute him persis with a dart.
O man, now luke how deir is þi ransoun,
How he is pvnist for þe, þat did na myss;
Thrist in þi hert his bitter passioun,
Murnyng in mynd, for þou art causs of þis!
Say: Lord, my syn and þi gret lufe, iwiss,
Garis þe now ly stentit on þe tre:
I did þe miss, Lord, haue mercy on me!
Quhen þai had drawin his handis and his feit
On lenth and breid, to mak his body lang,
To þe boris þai maid his body meit;
Syne with gret force þe nalis throw þai dang.
Fra handis and feit þe precius blud out ran
So plentiusly, quhill it his body wet,
Syne þai þe croce apoune þe end it set.
O man, on kne before þe tre þou kneill,
With hert and e luke to þe tre and say:
Quha the so hie hes fro me my sell?
All game and gle is gane fra me away.
Wa will me sla throw dollour or my day;
I may nocht luke bot þow abone me draw
To kiss þi feit with blude all wet ouraw.
O my kind King, of þis parting, allace,
Fra me all thing of conforting is tane.
O I biiding of all helping so naice
May seik and sing as dulfull dring allane.
Haist for to bring me into þi rigne sone hame;
For se I þe hing on þe tre me fro,
Deith with his dart will smyt my hert in two.
Ane trespassour þai put on every hand,
As he had beyne parttaker with þair cryme.
Now is compleit þe prophacy, sayand:
With ewill men he is deput to pyne.
Thai his clething partis with cuttis syne,
As þe propheit lang tyme had said:
My claithis ar partit and þaim cuttis laid.
Pilat wrait þe titill abone his heid:
Jhesu of Nazareth, of þe Jowis king.
Syne on þe croce stak it vp abone his heid,
Writtin in Greik, Ebrew, and Latyn.
This till reid mony, baith ald and ȝing,
Off þe Jowis, for neir þe ciete wes
Mont Calwary, quhair he to ded couth pas.
Thairat þe Jowis gret inwy þai had;
Thairfor þai said: Writ nocht: King am I,
Bot writ þat he king of Jowis him maid.
Pilat ansuerit and said to þame in hy:
That I haue writtin may nocht deny.
He said full trew, for sa behuffis to be,
For he be law wes king of all Jowre.
Thoucht Pilat vnderstud nocht quhat he wrait,
He coumendit Cristis nobillite.
Calland him king, he extollit his stait,
For till his crowne all kingis moist sudiet be,
And euery man in his realme crownis he,
Predestinat quhilk is to hevinns blis,
For be his ded our realme restorit is.
Jhesu in oure leid is callit saluitour,
And þat may weill be applyit to him;
For þe manly natour he tuke in cure,
Quhilk to þe ded wes neuer woundit be syn.
The joy þay tyne agane gart þaim wyn,
The quhilk scheip on his bak brocht hame,
Thairfor Jhesu we will call his name.
As Nazareth in Inglis toung is to say
As ȝouth, fairheid, innocence or new,
Quhilk till ony king apply we may,
That wes þe floure quhilk fra þe Jesse grew,
His haly life his gret pacience schew,
That Nazareth full weill till him mycht gane,
That did no myss and bure þe hevy pane.
Four kind of folk we fand þat scornit him,
Off quhom sum ȝeid, sum stude, , sum hang,
Quhilk betaikinnis folk in four kind of syn,
That nycht and day euer to Crist dois wrang.
And him blasfemes þair gret synnis amang,
Als sueit name in ded þai euer deny,
Doand þair cure him new to crucify.
The first þat scornit Crist into his ded,
Wes þe pepill, þat þe croce passit by.
Thir folk for scorne apoun him schuk þair heid,
Sayand: On the and all þi doctryne fyne
Thow said: þis tempill I sall distroy in hy,
And ane vthir in dais thre vp bring.
Now help thy self, gif þou be Crist our king!
Thir men þat gais ar men of covatice,
Quhilk in this warld wanderis nycht and day.
For ewill wynnyng þair followis syn and vice,
As of þis warld þai neuer suld pas away.
The moir þai haue, þe more þai covat ay;
Thai ryn in syn, as þai wald Crist blasfeme;
With avarice sa filit is thair eyne.
The secound folk þat scornit Crist our king,
Wes þe scribis into the law perfite,
With þam auld men quhilk in gouernyng
All þe pepill of þe tempill at
And þe bischoppis, quhilk had at him dispit;
Thir folk stude vpe and for scorne cryit him till:
He traistis in God, help him, gif he will.
Thir folk þat standis, ar lik men of pride,
Quhilkis standis stif be inobedience,
Als lukis vp be ambicioun all tyid;
To clyme abone is all þair deligence.
In þair power is all þair confidence,
Throu hicht and prid þai trow þe hevin to clyme,
Bot Lucifer thair ressoun makis dyme.
The thrid at sat, wes þai cruell knychtis,
The quhilk at Crist maid gret derisioun.
Thouch he wes God, he wald nocht schaw his mychtis,
He is man, for man wald thoill passioun.
Thairfor, throu malice and indiscrecioun,
Thai scornit him in his mortalite,
Trowand him nocht þe Sone of God to be.
Thir folk at sat betaikinnis cruell men,
Quhilk þe body haldis into eis;
Thair fleschely lust garris þaim Crist mysken,
Thair cruell will fer mair þan God þai pleis,
To sit euer and ly without diseis.
In all thair tyme to nuriss þe carioun,
Heir to tholl pane þai think it no ressoun.
Crist and Sanctis þir folk scornis all way,
Quhilk wan þe hevin with mekill wa and pane.
In cald, hunger, walkand nycht and day,
To by that joy with all sorrow war fane.
Tocht sum wer heidit, sum stanit, and sum slane,
Thai thocht all sueit with hevinly to wyn,
Thair for may nane but pane þat place cum in.
The fourt blasfemit Crist wes þe theife,
Quhilk on þe croce hiang on his left hand.
He said to Crist with impacience and greif:
Gif þou be king quhilk rigne in þis land,
Be to þi self and als till ws warand.
The tothir theif him repentit and said:
We serue oure ded, þocht he na falt haue maid.
This crabbit theif, þat hang on his rycht hand,
Quhilk but prophacy expletit his pennance
Betakinnis men, quhilk euer mair is murnand,
The saynd of God ay reput myschance.
Tha murne euer be þai in trublance.
Be impacience þair merit quyt þai tyn
And mynnis na thing of all thair pyne.
To þe gude theif our Lord said: þou sal be
This samin day with me in paradice.
Till his moder a sone deliuerit he,
A power seruand for þe gret Prince of Price.
Sche him as sone resauit in seruice,
He hir as moder and lady tuke in cure
Fra þat tyme furth, quhill his life can dure.
Now dollouris on euer ilk ane syid
In departing of þir tender freindis,
Quhile lufe, quhile pane wirkis þaim woundis wid,
And ay ilkane full sair for vthir menis.
Now pane, now wo, all confort fra þaim flemes;
Sair garris þame grane, all throu þe hert þaim thirlis,
Quhile wo, quhile dule þis part to þaim now trublis.
Fra Crist our king, quhilk is þe lampe of lycht,
Inclynit him þe spirit till expire,
Phebus for wo to luke had nocht mycht,
Bot drew abak his bemes in his ire;
Fra twelf till thre he let no thing espire;
As he wald say: I sall revengit be
Apoun þe man quhilk garris his maker de.
Quhen none drew neir, he cryit twiss: Ely!
Sayand: Fader, quhy hes thou left me sa?
Thou lettis me pyne, and efter confort cry,
Sa þat þe Jowis haldis me for þi fa;
To þi Marteris þou sendis confort in wa,
Till me, þi sone, þou sendis no remeid,
Bot in my wo refreschis me with ded.
O voce of reuth! O voce of maist dollour,
Off lamentatioun and greit piete!
Off all þe warld generall Salviour
But ony help now deis on þe tre!
Cry what he will, he gettis na suppley;
For God him puttis in þe will of man,
And man wait nocht how torment he him can.
Quhen Jhesu saw his torment draw to end,
And weill now neir compleitit þe prophecy,
He said: Sitio, þat is to thrist, I spend
For mannis saule my saule and my body.
Moir causis me þi lufe and na pane to cry;
Thame to redeme I haue sa gret desire,
That lufe and pane my hert birnis in a fire.
Quhen þat wes by herd, þat of thrist he spak,
Rynand in haist tuke ane reid þat wes tvme,
Syne a spowng fast apon it stak,
Als intill wynakar þai soupit it full sone.
Syne till Jhesu þai raikit it abone,
Sayand: Now Crist, mak for þi self remeid,
Cum of þe croce and saife þe fra þe ded.
Fra he tuke, he wald nocht drink of it,
Bot taistit it and put it fra him syne,
Sayand: All thing in me is consumyt,
Quhilk I suld thole þe man to lose fra pyne.
In cald and hunger I have spendit my tyme,
To gar þe man me lufe as souerane,
And for my luf I get no thing bot pane.