Down rennyn in hast over lond and wolde,
The trewth of this to have.
Whan thei ther comyn, as I 3ow say,
He is gon from undyr clay,
Than thei wytnesse anoon that day,
He lyth not in his grave.
Onto Mary Mawdelyn as we have bent,
Cryst Jhesu xal than apere,
In the xxxv." pagent,
And she wenyth he be a gardenere.
Mary, be name verament,
Whan Cryst here callyth with speche ful clere,
She fallyth to ground with good entent,
To kys his fete with gladsom chere.
But Cryst byddyth here do way,
He byddyth his feet that sche not kys,
Tyl he have styed to hefne blys,
To Crystes dyscyplys Mary i-wys -
Than goth the trewthe to say.
In the xxxvi." pagent xal Cleophas
And Sent Luke to a castel go,
Of Crystes deth as theifforth pas
They make gret mornyng and be ful wo,
Than Cryst them ovyrtok, as his wyl was,
And walkyd in felachep fforth with hem too,
To them he doth expowne bothe more and las
Alle that prophetes spake ad of hymself also;
That nyth in fay,
Whan thei be set within the castelle,
In brekyng of bred thei know Cryst welle,
Than sodeynly, as I 3ow telle,
Cryste is gon his way.
In the xxxvij. pagent than purpos we,
To Thomas of Ynde Cryst xal apere,
And Thomas evyn ther, as 3e xal se,
Xal put his hands in his woundes dere.
In the xxxviij." pagent up stye xal he
Into hefne that is so clere,
Alle hese apostele there xul be,
And woundere sore and have gret dwere,
Of that fferly syth.
Ther xal come aungelle tweyne,
And comfforte hem, this is certeyne,
And tellyn that he xal comyn ageyne,
Even by his owyn myth.
Than folwyth next sekyrly,
Of Wyttsunday that solempne fest,
Whyche pagent xal be ix. and thretty,
To the apostelys to apere be Crystes hest;
In Hierusalem were gaderyd xij. opynly,
To the Cenacle comyng from West to Est,
The Holy Gost apperyd ful vervently,
With brennyng fere thyrlyng here brest,
Procedyng from hevyn trone.
Alle maner langage hem spak with tung,
Latyn, Grek, and Ebrew amonge,
And affter thei departyd and taryed not long,
Here deth to take ful sone.
The xl." pagent xal be the last,
And domysday that pagent xal hyth, C
Who se that pagent may be agast
To grevyn his lord God eyther day or nyth;
The erthexal quake, bothe breke and brast,
Beryelys and gravys xul opeful tyth,
Ded men xul rysyn and that therin hast,
And fast to here ansuere thei xul hem dyth,
Before Godys face.
But prente wyl this in 3our mende,
Who so to God hath be unkende,
ffrenchep ther xal he non fynde,
Nether get he no grace.
Now have we told 30w alle be-dene
The hool mater that we thynke to play;
Whan that 3e come, ther xal 3e sene
This game wel pleyd in good aray.
Of holy wrytte this game xal bene,
And of no fablys be no way,
Now God them save from trey and tene,
for us that prayth upon that day,
And qwyte them wel ther mede.
A Sunday next, yf that we may,
At vi. of the belle we gynne oure play,
In N. towne, wherfore we pray,
That God now be 3oure spede. Amen.
Deus. Ego sum alpha et o, principium et finis.
My name is knowyn, God and kynge,
My werk for to make now wyl I wende,
In myself restyth my reynenge,
It hath no gynnyng ne non ende;
And alle that evyr xal have beynge,
It is closyd in my mende,
Whan it is made at my lykynge,
I may it save, I may it shende,
After my plesawns.
So gret of myth is my pousté,
Alle thyng xal be wrowth be me,
I am oo God in personys thre,
Knyt in oo substawns.
I am the trewe trenyté,
Here walkyng in this wone;
Thre personys myself Ise,
Lokyn in me God alone.
I am the fadyr of powsté,
My Sone with me gymnyth gon,
My Gost is grace in magesté,
Weldyth welthe up in hevyn tron.
O God thre I calle,
I a fadyr of myth,
My sone kepyth ryth,
My gost hath lyth,
Myself begynnyng nevyr dyd take,
And endeles I am thorw myn own myth,
Now wole I begynne my werke to make,
fyrst I make hevyn with sterrys of lyth
In myrth and joy evermore to wake,
In hevyn I bylde angelle ful bryth,
My servauntes to be, and for my sake,
With merth and melody worchepe my myth;
I belde them in my blysse.
Aungelle in hevyn evyrmore xal be,
In lythful clere bryth as ble,
With myrthe and song to worchip me,
Of joys thei may not mys.
Hic cantent angeli in caelo. “Tibi omnes angeli, tibi coeli et universae potestates, Tibi cherubyn et seraphyn incessabili voce proclamant, Sanctus ! Sanctus ! Sanctus ! Dominus Deus Sabaoth.”
Lucifer. To whos wurchipe synge 3e this songe,
To wurchip God or reverens me?
But 3e me wurchipe 3e do me wronge,
for I am the wurthyest that evyr may be.
Angeli bomi. We wurchipe God of myth most stronge,
Whiche hath formyd bothe us and the,
We may nevyr wurchyp hym to longe,
for he is most worthy of magesté.
On knes to God we falle.
Oure lorde God wurchyp we,
And in no wyse honowre we the,
A gretter lord may nevyrnon be,
Than he that made us alle.
Lucifer. A worthyer lorde forsothe am I,
And worthyer than he evyr wyl I be,
In evydens that I am more wurthy,
I wyl go syttyn in Goddesse.
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