Englands Antiphon | Page 4

him die. In the fifth, he reasons against her
overwhelming sorrows on the ground of the deliverance his sufferings
will bring to the human race. But she can only feel her own misery.
To understand the seventh and eighth, it is necessary to know that,
among other strange things accepted by the early Church, it was
believed that the mother of Jesus had no suffering at 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
gladé mood; cheerful.
Blithe mother mayst thou be."
"Son, how
should I blithé stand?
I see thy feet, I see thy hand
Nailéd to the
hard tree."
"Mother, do way thy wepynde: give over thy weeping. I tholé 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 terés werne?
turn aside tears. I see the bloody streamés 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 hellé 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 childé 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]

"Soné, help at alle need
Allé 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 ilké bliss, same.

Beseech thy son of sunnés 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 sweeté Sonés might!
Loverd, for that ilké 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 woundés 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 arearéd;
His
friendés are afearéd,
And clingeth so the clay;[6]
The rood stands in
stone,
Mary stands her on,
And saith Welaway!
When I thee behold
With eyen brighté bo, eyes bright both. And thy
body cold--
Thy ble waxeth blo, colour: