'Restless longing, heavenly avarice, that never could be satisfied': Roads and Pilgrims

Since it's the feast of St James, by medieval tradition the patron of pilgrims, here's a miscellany of texts touching on pilgrimages, roads, and seeking.

St James, attired as a pilgrim (1320s, Norwich; BL Stowe 12, f.279v)

The gode pilegrim halt eaver his rihte wei forth-ward. Thah he seo other here idele gomenes ant wundres bi the weie, he ne edstont nawt as foles doth, ah halt forth his rute ant hiheth toward his giste. He ne bereth na gersum bute his speonse gnedeliche, ne clathes bute ane theo thet him to neodeth. This beoth hali men the, thah ha beon i the world, ha beoth th'rin as pilegrimes ant gath with god lif-lade toward te riche of heovene, ant seggeth with the Apostle, Non habemus hic manentem civitatem, set futuram inquirimus - thet is, "nabbe we na wununge her, ah we secheth other." Beoth bi the leaste thet ha mahen, ne ne haldeth na tale of na worltlich frovre, thah ha beon i worltlich wei - as ich seide - of pilegrim, ah habbeth hare heorte eaver toward heovene, ant ahen wel to habben. For other pilegrimes gath [i] muche swinc to sechen ane sontes banes, as Sein James other Sein Giles, ah theo pilegrimes the gath toward heovene, ha gath to beon i-sontet, ant to finden Godd seolf ant alle his hali halhen, liviende i blisse, ant schulen livien with him i wunne buten ende. Ha i-findeth i-wis Sein Julienes in, the wei-fearinde men yeornliche bisecheth.

[The good pilgrim always keeps on his direct road forward. Although he may see or hear idle games and marvels beside the way, he does not stop, as fools do, but keeps on his road and hastens towards his lodging. He does not carry any treasure except his frugal expenses, and no clothes except only those which are necessary to him. These are holy men who, though they live in the world, live in it as pilgrims, and travel in a good way of living towards the kingdom of heaven, and say with the Apostle, Non habemus hic manentem civitatem, set futuram inquirimus; that is, we do not have a dwelling here, but we seek another. They make do with the least they can, and do not set any store by earthly comfort, though they are on the earthly road, as I said, as pilgrims; but their hearts are always directed towards heaven, and well they ought to be. For other pilgrims travel with great labour to seek the bones of a single saint, such as St James or St Giles, but these pilgrims, who travel towards heaven, go to be made saints and to find God himself and all his holy saints living in glory, and will live with him in joy without end. They truly find St Julian’s house, which wayfaring men earnestly seek.]

- from Ancrene Wisse

Canterbury Cathedral

I wol ful fayn, at Cristes reverence,
Do yow plesaunce leefful, as I kan.
But trusteth wel, I am a southren man,
I kan nat geeste 'rum, ram, ruf,' by lettre,
Ne, God woot, rym holde I but litel bettre;
And therfore, if yow list - I wol nat glose -
I wol yow telle a myrie tale in prose
To knytte up al this feeste, and make an ende.
And Jhesu, for his grace, wit me sende
To shewe yow the wey, in this viage,
Of thilke parfit glorious pilgrymage
That highte Jerusalem celestial...

Oure sweete lord God of hevene, that no man wole perisse, but wole that we comen alle to the knoweleche of hym, and to the blisful lif that is perdurable, amonesteth us by the prophete Jeremie, that seith in thys wyse: "stondeth upon the weyes, and seeth and axeth of olde pathes (that is to seyn, of olde sentences) which is the goode wey. And walketh in that wey, and ye shal fynde refresshynge for youre soules, etc." Manye been the weyes espirituels that leden folk to oure lord Jhesu Crist, and to the regne of glorie. Of whiche weyes, ther is a ful noble wey and ful covenable, which may nat fayle to man ne to womman that thurgh synne hath mysgoon fro the righte wey of Jerusalem celestial; and this wey is cleped penitence.

- Chaucer's Parson, telling the last tale of the Canterbury Pilgrimage (full text here)

The Parson in the Ellesmere Chaucer (from wikipedia)

Thanne hente Hope an horn of Deus tu conversus vivificabis nos
And blew it with Beati quorum remisse sunt iniquitate
That alle Seintes in hevene songen at ones,
Homines et iumenta salvabis, quemadmodum multiplicasti misericordiam tuam.
A thousand of men tho thrungen togideres,
Cride upward to Crist and to his clene moder
To have grace to go seke Truthe - God leve that they moten!
Ac there was wight noon so wys, the wey thider kouthe,
But blustreden forth as beestes over baches and hilles,
Til late was and longe, that thei a leode mette
Apparailled as a paynym in pilgrymes wise.
He bar a burdoun ybounde with a brood liste
In a withwynde wise ywounden aboute.
A bolle and a bagge he bar by his syde.
An hundred of ampulles on his hat seten,
Signes of Synay and shelles of Galice,
And many a crouch on his cloke, and keyes of Rome,
And the vernicle bifore, for men sholde knowe
And se bi hise signes whom he sought hadde.
This folk frayned hym first fro whennes he come.
"Fram Synay," he seide, "and fram the Sepulcre.
In Bethlem and in Babiloyne, I have ben in bothe,
In Armonye, in Alisaundre, in manye othere places.
Ye may se by my signes that sitten on myn hatte
That I have walked ful wide in weet and in drye
And sought goode seintes for my soule helthe."
"Knowestow aught a corsaint," quod thei, "that men calle Truthe?
Koudestow wissen us the wey wher that wye dwelleth?"
"Nay, so me God helpe!" seide the gome thanne.
"I seigh nevere palmere with pyk ne with scrippe
Asken after hym er now in this place."

"Peter!" quod a Plowman, and putte forth his hed,
"I knowe hym as kyndely as clerk doth hise bokes.
Conscience and Kynde Wit kenned me to his place
And diden me suren hym siththen to serven hym for evere,
Bothe to sowe and to sette the while I swynke myghte.
I have ben his folwere al this fourty wynter--
Bothe ysowen his seed and suwed hise beestes,
Withinne and withouten waited his profit,
Idyked and idolve, ido that he hoteth.
Som tyme I sowe and som tyme I thresshe,
In taillours craft and tynkeris craft, what Truthe kan devyse,
I weve and I wynde and do what Truthe hoteth.
For though I seye it myself, I serve hym to paye;
I have myn hire of hym wel and outherwhiles moore.
He is the presteste paiere that povere men knoweth:
He withhalt noon hewe his hire that he ne hath it at even.
He is as lowe as a lomb and lovelich of speche.
And if ye wilneth to wite where that he dwelleth,
I wol wisse yow wel right to his place."
"Ye, leve Piers!" quod thise pilgrimes, and profred hym huyre.
"Nay, by the peril of my soule!" quod Piers and gan to swere,
"I nolde fange a ferthyng, for Seint Thomas shryne!
Truthe wolde love me the lasse a long tyme after."

- Piers Plowman, Passus V

St James (c.1500, from Westhall)

I travell'd on, seeing the hill, where lay
My expectation.
A long it was and weary way.
The gloomy cave of Desperation
I left on th'one, and on the other side
The rock of Pride.

And so I came to Phansies medow strow'd
With many a flower:
Fair would I here have made abode,
But I was quicken'd by my houre.
So to Cares cops I came, and there got through
With much ado.

That led me to the wilde of Passion, which
Some call the wold;
A wasted place, but sometimes rich.
Here I was robb'd of all my gold,
Save one good Angell, which a friend had ti'd
Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,
Where lay my hope,
Where lay my heart; and climbing still,
When I had gain'd the brow and top,
A lake of brackish waters on the ground
Was all I found.

With that abash'd and struck with many a sting
Of swarming fears,
I fell, and cry'd, Alas my King;
Can both the way and end be tears?
Yet taking heart I rose, and then perceiv'd
I was deceiv'd:

My hill was further: so I flung away,
Yet heard a crie
Just as I went, None goes that way
And lives: If that be all, said I,
After so foul a journey death is fair,
And but a chair.

- George Herbert, 'The Pilgrimage'

Pilgrims' crosses, Stodmarsh

Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blessed abode,
But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the road.

Not for us are content, and quiet, and peace of mind,
For we go seeking a city that we shall never find.

There is no solace on earth for us - for such as we -
Who search for a hidden city that we shall never see.

Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, and the rain,
And the watch fire under stars, and sleep, and the road again.

We seek the City of God, and the haunt where beauty dwells,
And we find the noisy mart and the sound of burial bells.

Never the golden city, where radiant people meet,
But the dolorous town where mourners are going about the street.

We travel the dusty road till the light of the day is dim,
And sunset shows us spires away on the world's rim.

We travel from dawn to dusk, till the day is past and by,
Seeking the Holy City beyond the rim of the sky.

Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth nor blest abode,
But the hope of the City of God at the other end of the road.

- John Masefield, 'The Seekers'

South Elmham St James, Suffolk

Bearwas blostmum nimað, byrig fægriað,
wongas wlitigað, woruld onetteð;
ealle þa gemoniað modes fusne
sefan to siþe, þam þe swa þenceð
on flodwegas feor gewitan.
Swylce geac monað geomran reorde,
singeð sumeres weard, sorge beodeð
bitter in breosthord. þæt se beorn ne wat,
esteadig secg, hwæt þa sume dreogað
þe þa wræclastas widost lecgað.
Forþon nu min hyge hweorfeð ofer hreþerlocan,
min modsefa mid mereflode
ofer hwæles eþel hweorfeð wide,
eorþan sceatas, cymeð eft to me
gifre ond grædig, gielleð anfloga,
hweteð on hwælweg hreþer unwearnum
ofer holma gelagu. Forþon me hatran sind
dryhtnes dreamas þonne þis deade lif,
læne on londe.

The woods take on blossoms, towns become fair,
fields grow beautiful, the world hastens on;
all these things urge on the eager mind,
the spirit to the journey, in one who thinks to travel
far on the paths of the sea.
The cuckoo too gives warning with mournful voice,
summer's watchman sings, foretells sorrow,
bitter in the heart. Of this that man knows nothing,
the warrior blessed with wealth, what some endure
who furthest tread the paths of exile.
And so now my spirit roams beyond the confines of the heart,
my spirit over the sea-flood;
it wanders wide over the whale's home,
the expanse of the earth, and comes back to me
eager and greedy; the lone flier cries,
incites the heart to the whale's way, irresistible,
across the ocean's floods. And so to me
the joys of the Lord are warmer than this dead life,
lent on land.

- 'The Seafarer'

Stowting, Kent

(Halted around the fire by night, after moon-set, they sing this beneath the trees)

What light of unremembered skies
Hast thou relumed within our eyes,
Thou whom we seek, whom we shall find? . . .
A certain odour on the wind,
Thy hidden face beyond the west,
These things have called us; on a quest
Older than any road we trod,
More endless than desire. . . .

Far God,
Sigh with thy cruel voice, that fills
The soul with longing for dim hills
And faint horizons! For there come
Grey moments of the antient dumb
Sickness of travel, when no song
Can cheer us; but the way seems long;
And one remembers. . . .

Ah! the beat
Of weary unreturning feet,
And songs of pilgrims unreturning! . . .
The fires we left are always burning
On the old shrines of home. Our kin
Have built them temples, and therein
Pray to the Gods we know; and dwell
In little houses lovable,
Being happy (we remember how!)
And peaceful even to death. . . .

O Thou,
God of all long desirous roaming,
Our hearts are sick of fruitless homing,
And crying after lost desire.
Hearten us onward! as with fire
Consuming dreams of other bliss.
The best Thou givest, giving this
Sufficient thing - to travel still
Over the plain, beyond the hill,
Unhesitating through the shade,
Amid the silence unafraid,
Till, at some sudden turn, one sees
Against the black and muttering trees
Thine altar, wonderfully white,
Among the Forests of the Night.

- Rupert Brooke, 'The Song of the Pilgrims'

'Christ and the pilgrims' on the road to Emmaus (BL Yates Thompson 13, f.127v)

There are primal things which move us. Fire has the character of a free companion that has traveled with us from the first exile; only to see a fire, whether he need it or no, comforts every man. Again, to hear two voices outside at night after a silence, even in crowded cities, transforms the mind. A Roof also, large and mothering, satisfies us here in the north much more than modern necessity can explain; so we built in the beginning: the only way to carry off our rains and to bear the weight of our winter snows. A Tower far off arrests a man’s eye always: it is more than a break in the sky-line; it is an enemy’s watch or the rallying of a defence to whose aid we are summoned. Nor are these emotions a memory or a reversion only as one crude theory might pretend; we craved these things - the camp, the refuge, the sentinels in the dark, the hearth - before we made them; they are part of our human manner, and when this civilisation has perished they will reappear.

Of these primal things the least obvious but the most important is The Road. It does not strike the sense as do those others I have mentioned; we are slow to feel its influence. We take it so much for granted that its original meaning escapes us. Men, indeed, whose pleasure it is perpetually to explore even their own country on foot, and to whom its every phase of climate is delightful, receive, somewhat tardily, the spirit of The Road. They feel a meaning in it; it grows to suggest the towns upon it, it explains its own vagaries, and it gives a unity to all that has arisen along its way. But for the mass The Road is silent; it is the humblest and the most subtle, but, as I have said, the greatest and the most original of the spells which we inherit from the earliest pioneers of our race. It was the most imperative and the first of our necessities. It is older than building and than wells; before we were quite men we knew it, for the animals still have it to-day; they seek their food and their drinking-places, and, as I believe, their assemblies, by known tracks which they have made.

It is easy to re-create in oneself to-day a sense of what the Road means to living things on land: it is easy to do it even in this crowded country. Walk, for instance, on the neglected Pennines along the watershed of England, from Malham Tarn, say, to Ribblehead, or from Kirkby Stephen up along the crest to Crossfell and so to Alston, and you will learn at once what follows on an untouched soil from the absence of a track of a guide. One ravine out of the many radiating from a summit will lead to the one valley you seek; take another stream and you are condemned at last to traverse mountains to repair the error. In a fog or at night, if one has not such a path, there is nothing to help one but the lay of the snow or the trend of the vegetation under the last gale. In climbing, the summit is nearly always hidden, and nothing but a track will save you from false journeys. In descent it alone will save you a precipice or an unfordable stream. It knows upon which side an obstacle can be passed, where there is firm land in a morass, and where there is the best going; sand or rock - dry soil. It will find what nothing but long experiment can find for an individual traveller, the precise point in a saddle or neck where approach is easiest from either side, and everywhere the Road, especially the very early Road, is wiser than it seems to be...

To study something of great age until one grows familiar with it and almost to live in its time, is not merely to satisfy a curiosity or to establish aimless truths: it is rather to fulfil a function whose appetite has always rendered History a necessity. By the recovery of the Past, stuff and being are added to us; our lives which, lived in the present only, are a film or surface, take on body - are lifted into one dimension more. The soul is fed. Reverence and knowledge and security and the love of a good land - all these are increased or given by the pursuit of this kind of learning. Visions or intimations are confirmed. It is excellent to see perpetual agony and failure perpetually breeding the only enduring things; it is excellent to see the crimes we know ground under the slow wheels whose ponderous advance we can hardly note during the flash of one human life. One may say that historical learning grants men glimpses of life completed and a whole; and such a vision should be the chief solace of whatever is mortal and cut off imperfectly from fulfilment...

For my part I desired to step exactly in the footprints of such ancestors. I believed that, as I followed their hesitations at the river crossings, as I climbed where they had climbed to a shrine whence they also had seen a wide plain, as I suffered the fatigue they suffered, and laboriously chose, as they had chosen, the proper soils for going, something of their much keener life would wake again in the blood I drew from them, and that in a sort I should forget the vileness of my own time, and renew for some few days the better freedom of that vigorous morning when men were already erect, articulate, and worshipping God, but not yet broken by complexity and the long accumulation of evil. It was perhaps a year ago that I determined to follow and piously to recover the whole of that doubtful trail whereby they painfully made their way from one centre of their common life to the sea, which was at once their chief mystery and their only passage to the rest of their race - from Hampshire to the Straits of Dover.

- Hilaire Belloc, following the Pilgrims' Way from Winchester to Canterbury in 'The Old Road'

From my current favourite pilgrims, A Walk Around Britain

There are more ways than one of getting close to your ancestors. Follow the old road, and as you walk, think of them and of the old England. They climbed Chillingbourne Hill just as you did. They sweated and paused for breath just as you did today. And when you see the bluebells in the spring and the wild thyme and the broom and the heather, you're only seeing what their eyes saw. You ford the same rivers. The same birds are singing. When you lie flat on your back and rest, and watch the clouds sailing, as I often do, you're so close to those other people that you can hear the thrumming of the hoofs of their horses, and the sound of the wheels on the road, and their laughter and talk, and the music of the instruments they carried. And when I turn the bend in the road, where they too saw the towers of Canterbury, I feel I've only to turn my head to see them on the road behind me.

- A Canterbury Tale (1944)

For giving me desire,
An eager thirst, a burning ardent fire,
A virgin infant flame,
A love with which into the world I came,
An inward hidden heavenly love,
Which in my soul did work and move,
And ever, ever me inflame
With restless longing, heavenly avarice,
That never could be satisfied,
That did incessantly a paradise
Unknown suggest, and something undescribed
Discern, and bear me to it; be
Thy name forever praised by me.

My parched and withered bones
Burnt up did seem; my soul was full of groans;
My thoughts extensions were:
Like paces, reaches, steps they did appear;
They somewhat hotly did pursue,
Knew that they had not all their due,
Nor ever quiet were.
But made my flesh like hungry, thirsty ground,
My heart a deep profound abyss,
And every joy and pleasure a wound,
So long as I my blessedness did miss.
Oh happiness! A famine burns,
And all my life to anguish turns!

Where are the silent streams,
The living waters and the glorious beams,
The sweet reviving bowers,
The shady groves, the sweet and curious flowers,
The springs and trees, the heavenly days,
The flow'ry meads, and glorious rays,
The gold and silver towers?
Alas! all these are poor and empty things!
Trees, waters, days, and shining beams,
Fruits, flowers, bowers, shady groves, and springs,
No joy will yield, no more than silent streams;
Those are but dead material toys,
And cannot make my heavenly joys.

O love! Ye amities,
And friendships that appear above the skies!
Ye feasts and living pleasures!
Ye senses, honors, and imperial treasures!
That satisfy all appetites!
Ye sweet affections, and
Ye high respects! Whatever joys there be
In triumphs, whatsoever stand
In amicable sweet society,
Whatever pleasures are at His right hand,
Ye must before I am divine
In full propriety be mine.

This soaring, sacred thirst,
Ambassador of bliss, approached first,
Making a place in me
That made me apt to prize, and taste, and see.
For not the objects but the sense
Of things doth bliss to our souls dispense,
And make it, Lord, like Thee.
Sense, feeling, taste, complacency, and sight,
These are the true and real joys,
The living, flowing, inward, melting, bright,
And heavenly pleasures; all the rest are toys;
All which are founded in desire,
As light in flame and heat in fire.

- Thomas Traherne

The Ladder to Heaven

Elijah being taken up to heaven (BL Royal 1 C VII, f.154v)

An extract from Part 6 of Ancrene Wisse, the thirteenth-century book of guidance for anchoresses.

Vilitas & asperitas, vilte & asprete, theos twa, scheome & pine, as Sein Beornard seith, beoth the twa leaddre-steolen the beoth up iriht to heovene; & bitweone theose steolen beoth of alle gode theawes the tindes ifestnet, bi hwucche me climbeth to the blisse of heovene. Forthi thet Davith hefde the twa steolen of this leaddre, thah he king were, he clomb uppard & seide baldeliche to ure Laverd, Vide humilitatem meam & laborem meum & dimitte universa delicta mea. "Bihald," quoth he, "& sih min eadmodnesse & mi swinc, & foryef me mine sunnen alle togederes." Notith wel thes twa word the Davith feieth somet: "swinc" ant "eadmodnesse" - swinc i pine & i wa, i sar & i sorhe; eadmodnesse ayein woh of scheome thet mon dreheth, the is itald unwurth. "Ba theos bihald in me," quoth Davith, Godes deorling. "Ich habbe theos twa leaddre-steolen." Dimitte universa delicta mea. "Leaf," quoth he, "bihinde me & warp awei from me alle mine gultes thet ich, ilihtet of hare hevinesse, lihtliche stihe up to heovene bi theos leaddre."

Theose twa thinges - thet is, wa & scheome ifeiet togederes - beoth Helyes hweoles the weren furene, hit teleth, & beren him up to parais, ther he liveth yetten. Fur is hat ant read. I the heate is understonden euch wa thet eileth flesch; scheome bi the reade. Ah wel mei duhen. Ha beoth her hweolinde, ase hweoles overturneth sone, ne leasteth nane hwile. This ilke is ec bitacnet bi cherubines sweord bivore paraise yeten, the wes of lei & hweolinde & turninde abuten. Ne kimeth nan into parais bute thurh this leitinde sweord, the wes hat ant read, & in Helyes furene hweoles - thet is, thurh sar & thurh scheome, the overturneth tidliche, & agath sone.

Ant nes Godes rode with his deore-wurthe blod irudet ant ireadet, forte schawin on him seolf thet pine & sorhe & sar schulden with scheome beon iheowet? Nis hit iwriten bi him, Factus est obediens patri usque ad mortem, mortem autem crucis - thet is, "he wes buhsum his feader, nawt ane to death, ah to death o rode"? Thurh thet he seide earst "death" is pine understonden. Thurh thet he threfter seith "death o the rode" is schendlac bitacnet, for swuch wes Godes death o the deore rode, pinful & schentful over alle othre.

Hwa se eaver deieth ine Godd & o Godes rode, theos twa ha mot tholien: scheome for him & pine. Scheome ich cleopie eaver her beon itald unwurth, & beggin as an hearlot, yef neod is, hire liveneth, & beon othres beodesmon - as ye beoth, leove sustren - & tholieth ofte danger of swuch otherhwile the mahte beon ower threal. This is thet eadi scheome thet ich of talie. Pine ne truketh ow nawt. I theos ilke twa thing thet al penitence is in, blissith ow & gleadieth, for ayein theos twa ow beoth twafald blissen iyarket: ayein scheome, menske; ayein pine, delit & reste buten ende. Ysaias: In terra inquit sua duplicia possidebunt. "Ha schulen," seith Ysaie, "in hare ahne lond wealden twavald blisse ayein twavald wa thet ha her dreheth." "In hare ahne lond," seith Ysaie, for alswa as the uvele nabbeth na lot in heovene, ne the gode nabbeth na lot in eorthe. Super epistolam Jacobi: Mali nichil habent in celo; boni vero nichil in terra. In hare ahne lond ha schulen wealden blisse, twafald cunne mede, ayein twavald sorhe, as thah he seide, Ne thunche ham na feorlich, thah ha her tholien as in uncuth lond & in uncuth eard, bituhhen untheode, scheome ba & sorhe, for swa deth moni gentil mon the is uncuth in uncuththe. Me mot ute swinken: ed hame me schal resten, ant nis he a cang cniht the secheth reste i the feht & eise i the place? Milicia est vita hominis super terram. "Al this lif is a feht," as Job witneth. Ah efter this feht her, yef we wel fehteth, menske & reste abit us ed hame in ure ahne lond - thet is, heoveriche.

The famous part of Ancrene Wisse, the bit which students tend to read (and which I've recently been teaching for the first time), is the section which deals with Love: the love of Christ for the soul, and the love which his sacrifice ought to inspire in the heart of the anchoress. I've posted extracts from this section before, as 'Christ the knight', 'Christ the shield', and 'Set the price of your love...'. It's the most accessible part of a complex text, and is deservedly well-known, superb as prose and characteristic of an important strand of medieval theology. (And the author himself says that this is the most important section; love is 'the lady rule', he says, which other rules of life serve.) But there's more to Ancrene Wisse than this, and at times I find myself drawn to the earlier parts of the text, such as this passage, which deals with penance and the value of suffering in human life. Here's my translation of the above:

Vilitas et asperitas, contempt and adversity, these two, shame and suffering, as St Bernard says, are the two uprights of the ladder which is raised up to heaven; and between those uprights the rungs are fastened, made from all good virtues, by which one climbs to the joy of heaven. Because David had the two uprights of this ladder, though he was a king, he climbed upward and boldly said to our Lord, Vide humilitatem meam et laborem meum et dimitte universa delicta mea. "Look," he said, "and see my humility and my labour, and forgive me all my sins." Observe well these two words which David joins together, labour and humility: labour, in pain and in grief, in suffering and in sorrow; humility, in the face of the injury of shame that a man endures who is considered to be worthless. "Behold both of these in me," said David, God’s darling; "I have the two uprights of the ladder." Dimitte universa delicta mea. "Put behind me," he said, "and cast away all my offences from me, so that lightened from their weight I may lightly rise up to heaven by this ladder."

Those two things, that is, pain and shame joined together, are Elijah’s wheels, which were made of fire, it is said, and carried him up to Paradise, where he still lives. Fire is hot and red. By the heat may be understood every pain which afflicts the flesh; by the redness, shame. This will serve the present purpose. Here they are temporary, just as wheels revolve quickly and do not remain in one place for long. The same thing is also betokened by the sword of the cherubim before the gates of Paradise, which was made of flame, wheeling and turning about. No one ever came in to Paradise except through this flaming sword which was hot and red, and through Elijah’s fiery wheels, that is, through suffering and shame, which turn again in time and soon pass away.

And was not God’s cross ruddied and reddened by his precious blood, in order to show that mortification, suffering and sorrow should be coloured with shame? Is it not written about him, Factus est obediens patri usque ad mortem, mortem autem crucis, that is, "he was obedient to his father not only to death, but even to death on a cross"? When he said "death" first, it is to be understood as suffering; when afterwards he said "death on a cross", that betokens ignominy; for such was God’s death on the dear cross, painful and shameful above all others.

Whoever dies in God and on God’s cross, these two he must endure, shame and suffering. I call it shame always to be considered worthless here and to beg like a vagabond, if necessary, for your means of living, and to be other people’s bedesman, as you are, dear sisters, and to often endure arrogance at times from people who might be your servants. This is the blessed shame I am talking about. Suffering will never fail you. In these two things in which the whole of penitence consists, rejoice and be glad, because instead of these two a twofold joy is prepared for you: instead of shame, honour; instead of suffering, pleasure and rest without end. Isaiah: In terra inquit sua duplicia possidebunt. "They shall," says Isaiah, "have twofold joy in their own country instead of the twofold pain which they endure here" – in their own country, says Isaiah, because just as wicked men do not have a share in heaven, so good men do not have a share in earth. Super epistolam Jacobi: Mali nichil habent in celo; boni vero nichil in terra. In their own country they shall have joy, two kinds of reward instead of two kinds of grief, as if he said, it is no wonder to them that they suffer both shame and sorrow here, as in a strange land and a strange country among unfamiliar people, for so does many a noble man who is a stranger in a strange place. One must labour abroad; at home one can rest. And is he not a foolish knight who seeks rest in the fight and ease in the field of battle? Milicia est vita hominis super terram. "All this life is a battle", as Job bears witness; but after the battle here, if we fight well, honour and rest await us at home in our own country, that is, the kingdom of heaven.

Ascending the ladder of virtues (BL Arundel 44, f.93v)

The author urges his audience of anchorites to accept pain and humiliation in the eyes of the world as the surest routes to comfort in heaven; whatever you may think of what he's saying, there's no denying he says it beautifully. The difficulty with translating Ancrene Wisse is that it's almost impossible to preserve the wordplay, on which much of the thought-progression turns and builds. This is also part of what makes the text so appealing - something I've been contemplating over the past few weeks, as I try and work out how to convey this to my students. You can take just about any passage from Ancrene Wisse and have fun puzzling out the mechanics of its complex, fluid - on the surface, almost casual - mode of composition. This passage is structured around pairs of words, which appear as synonymous doublets, as complements, or as oppositions: scheome and pine, eadmodnesse and swinc, sar and sorhe, menske and reste. Everything comes in twos, like the twin uprights of the ladder to heaven, as if rung by rung the ladder is being built before our eyes. St Bernard's image of the ladder is only sustained for a few sentences, quickly exchanged for another means of reaching heaven - Elijah's chariot of fire - but it's established a pattern of doubles which structures the rest of the passage: the twin wheels of Elijah's chariot, leading into the more abstract twins of twofold suffering on earth, countered with twofold bliss in heaven.

A simple instance of the text's characteristic wordplay appears in the author's paraphrase of the words of David (from Psalm 25): "Leaf," quoth he, "bihinde me ant warp awei from me alle mine gultes thet ich, ilihtet of hare hevinesse, lihtliche stihe up to heovene." "Leave," he said, "behind me and cast away from me all my sins so that I, lightened from their heaviness, may lightly rise up to heaven." This plays not only on the words lightened and lightly (which, like the modern equivalent, means both 'not heavily' and 'easily') but also on heaviness, which means both 'weight' and 'sorrow', and points forward to its sound-alike opposite, heaven. (This passage reminds me of Eadmer recalling in his Life of St Anselm that "I can never forget how [Anselm] replied to me once when I asked him to bring it to pass that, as he had had me for a companion in his labours here below, so I might share in his reward in Heaven. He said certainly he would willingly and gladly do this - only let me take care not to make myself too heavy for him. As to this, however, if the just Judge should put away his pity in assessing the weight of my sins, my soul would certainly not rise but go headlong into the bottomless pit.")

Another lovely bit of wordplay comes in the passage about the wheels of fire which bore Elijah up to heaven (in 2 Kings) and the sword of the angel before the gates of Eden, hweolinde ant turninde abuten, 'wheeling and turning about'. Bodily pain and humiliation are like these fires, hot and red; but they are hweolinde, wheeling round and passing in time, like hweoles because they only last a short hwile. 'Wheeling' doesn't convey 'temporary' as strongly today as it did for our author, for whom hweole and hwile were nearly homophones, and who had probably been brought up on the image of Fortune's wheel - the ultimate symbol of the passing nature of earthly things - from his earliest schooldays. Anything which is hweolinde is by definition both short-lived (and thus, reassuringly, will not have to be endured for long) and earthly, not heavenly, for it's only on earth that things pass away; but there's a kind of paradox in the fact that it's the wheels of this very same temporary, earthly suffering which carries you to heaven, where joy is eternal.

Like the pairs of words which form the uprights of the ladder - two ideas which complement each other and so allow something to be built between them - paradox is another form of structural 'twinning', whereby two opposites come together to support a third idea, which is the product of both but identical with neither. Such a paradox is the eadi scheome, 'blessed shame', by which humiliation is turned into honour. And I'm especially fond of what happens to the language in the last few sentences quoted here: on earth, the author says, we suffer as in uncuth lond, ant in uncuth eard, bituhhen untheode... for swa deth moni gentil mon the is uncuth in uncuththe; 'as in a strange land and in a strange country, among an unknown people... for so does many a noble man who is a stranger in a strange place'. It's not really possible to convey in translation the power of all those negatives: four times uncuth ('unknown') and once untheode. The echo is of the Biblical idea of 'a stranger in a strange land', but that phrase is too familiar to render the depth of the strangeness here. The alienation is produced by some peculiar tricks of language: untheode (a word only found in this text, according to the MED) is a negation formed from the word theode, 'a people', and eard means 'country' but really 'native country, homeland', so an untheode and an uncuth eard are troubling things indeed. On earth we are in 'not-our-homeland' surrounded by 'not-our-people' - very far from home. And so how is it surprising if life on earth is difficult? Me mot ute swinken: ed hame me schal resten. 'One must labour abroad; at home one can rest.'

Elijah in his chariot (BL Royal 17 E VII f. 166v)

'They find St Julian’s house, which wayfaring men earnestly seek'

St Julian (BL Yates Thompson 3 f. 278)

Since today is the feast-day of St Julian the Hospitaller, patron saint of pilgrims and travellers, I was reminded of the following passage from Ancrene Wisse, the thirteenth-century guide for anchorites. This comes from the beginning of Part 6.

Threo manere men of Godes i-corene livieth on eorthe: the ane mahe beon to gode pilegrimes i-evenet; the othre, to deade; the thridde, to i-hongede with hare gode wil o Jesuse rode. The forme beoth gode; the othre beoth betere; the thridde best of alle.

To the forme gredeth Seinte Peter inwardliche, Obsecro vos, tanquam advenas et peregrinos, ut abstineatis vos a carnalibus desideriis, que militant adversus animam. "Ich halsi ow," he seith, "as el-theodie ant pilegrimes, thet ye withhalden ow from fleschliche lustes the weorrith ayein the sawle." The gode pilegrim halt eaver his rihte wei forth-ward. Thah he seo other here idele gomenes ant wundres bi the weie, he ne edstont nawt as foles doth, ah halt forth his rute ant hiheth toward his giste. He ne bereth na gersum bute his speonse gnedeliche, ne clathes bute ane theo thet him to neodeth. This beoth hali men the, thah ha beon i the world, ha beoth th'rin as pilegrimes ant gath with god lif-lade toward te riche of heovene, ant seggeth with the Apostle, Non habemus hic manentem civitatem, set futuram inquirimus - thet is, "nabbe we na wununge her, ah we secheth other." Beoth bi the leaste thet ha mahen, ne ne haldeth na tale of na worltlich frovre, thah ha beon i worltlich wei - as ich seide - of pilegrim, ah habbeth hare heorte eaver toward heovene, ant ahen wel to habben. For other pilegrimes gath [i] muche swinc to sechen ane sontes banes, as Sein James other Sein Giles, ah theo pilegrimes the gath toward heovene, ha gath to beon i-sontet, ant to finden Godd seolf ant alle his hali halhen, liviende i blisse, ant schulen livien with him i wunne buten ende. Ha i-findeth i-wis Sein Julienes in, the wei-fearinde men yeornliche bisecheth.

Nu beoth theose gode, ah yet beoth the othre betere, for allegate pilegrimes, as ich ear seide, al gan ha eaver forth-ward, ne bicumen burh-men i the worldes burh, ham thuncheth sum-chearre god of thet ha seoth bi weie, ant edstuteth sum-deal, thah ha ne don mid alle, ant moni thing ham falleth to hwer-thurh ha beoth i-lette, swa thet - mare hearm is! - sum kimeth leate ham, sum neaver mare. Hwa is thenne skerre, ant mare ut of the world then pilegrimes? - thet is to seggen, then theo men the habbeth worltlich thing ant ne luvieth hit nawt, ah yeoveth hit as hit kimeth ham, ant gath untrusset, lihte as pilegrimes doth toward heovene? Hwa beoth betere thene theos? Godd wat, theo beoth betere the the Apostle speketh to, ant seith in his epistle, Mortui estis et vita vestra abscondita est cum Christo in Deo. Cum autem apparuerit vita vestra, tunc et vos apparebitis cum ipso in gloria. "Ye beoth deade ant ower lif is i-hud mid Criste. Hwen he thet is ower lif eadeaweth ant springeth as the dahunge efter nihtes theosternesse, ant ye schulen with him springen schenre then the sunne into eche blisse." The nu beoth thus deade, hare lif-lade is herre, for pilegrim eileth moni-hwet. The deade nis noht of, thah he ligge unburiet ant rotie buven eorthe. Preise him, laste him, do him scheome, sei him scheome - al him is i-liche leof. This is a seli death thet maketh cwic mon thus, other cwic wummon, ut of the worlde. Ah sikerliche hwa-se is thus dead in hire-seolven, Godd liveth in hire heorte. For this is thet te Apostle seith, Vivo ego iam non ego. Vivit autem in me Christus. "Ich livie - nawt ich, ah Crist liveth in me" thurh his in-wuniende grace, ant is as thah he seide, "worltlich speche, worltlich sihthe, ant euch worltlich thing i-findeth me deade. Ah thet te limpeth to Crist, thet ich seo ant here, ant wurche i cwicnesse." Thus riht is euch religius dead to the worlde ant cwic thah to Criste.

This is an heh steire, ah yet is thah an herre. Ant hwa stod eaver th'rin? Godd wat, the the seide, Michi absit gloriari nisi in cruce Domini mei, Jesu Christi, per quam michi mundus crucifixus est et ego mundo. This is thet ich seide th'ruppe: "Crist me schilde for-te habben eani blisse i this world bute i Jesu Cristes rode, mi Laverd, thurh hwam the world is me unwurth, ant ich am unwurth hire, as weari the is ahonget." A, Laverd, hehe stod he the spec o thisse wise. Ant this is ancre steire thet ha thus segge, Michi autem absit gloriari, et cetera. "I na thing ne blissi ich me bute i Godes rode, thet ich tholie nu wa ant am i-tald unwurth as Godd wes o rode." Lokith, leove sustren, hu this steire is herre then eani beo of the othre. The pilegrim i the wor[l]des wei, thah he ga forth-ward toward te ham of heovene, he sith ant hereth unnet, ant speketh umbe-hwile, wreatheth him for weohes, ant moni thing mei letten him of his jurnee. The deade nis na mare of scheome then of menske, of heard then of nesche, for he ne feleth nowther, ant for-thi ne ofearneth he nowther wa ne wunne. Ah the the is o rode ant haveth blisse th'rof, he wendeth scheome to menske ant wa into wunne, ant ofearneth for-thi hure over hure. This beoth theo the neaver ne beoth gleade i-heortet bute hwen ha tholieth sum wa other sum scheome with Jesu on his rode. For this is the selhthe on eorthe, hwa-se mei for Godes luve habben scheome ant teone. Thus, lo, rihte ancres ne beoth nawt ane pilegrimes, ne yet nawt ane deade, ah beoth of theos thridde. For al hare blisse is for-te beon ahonget sariliche ant scheomeliche with Jesu on his rode.

'Three kinds of men of God’s chosen ones live on earth: one may be likened to good pilgrims; another to the dead; the third to men who are voluntarily hanged on Jesus’ cross. The first are good, the second are better, and the third are best of all.

St Peter cried out to the first sort from the heart, Obsecro vos, tanquam advenas et peregrinos, ut abstineatis vos a carnalibus desideriis, que militant adversus animam. I implore you, he says, as foreigners and pilgrims, abstain from carnal lusts, which wage war against the soul. The good pilgrim always keeps on the direct road forward. Although he may see or hear idle games and marvels along the way, he does not stop, as fools do, but keeps on his road and hastens towards his lodging. He does not carry any treasure except his frugal expenses, and no clothes except only those which are necessary to him. These are holy men who, though they live in the world, live in it as pilgrims, and travel in a good way of living towards the kingdom of heaven, and say with the apostle, Non habemus hic manentem civitatem, set futuram inquirimus; that is, we do not have a dwelling here, but we seek another. They make do with the least they can, and do not set any store by earthly comfort, though they are on the worldly road, as I said, as pilgrims; but their hearts are always directed towards heaven, and well they ought to be. For other pilgrims travel with great labour to seek the bones of a single saint, such as St James or St Giles, but these pilgrims, who travel towards heaven, go to be made saints and to find God himself and all his holy hallows living in glory, and will live with him in joy without end. They truly find St Julian’s house, which wayfaring men earnestly seek.

Now these men are good, but the other sort are still better: because invariably pilgrims, as I said before, although they keep going forwards and do not become residents in the city of the world, on occasion something they see by the road looks attractive to them and they stop for a while, though not permanently, and many things happen to them by means of which they are hindered, with the result – more’s the pity! – that some get home late, and some never at all. Who then is holier and more out of the world than pilgrims? That is to say, than those men who have worldly possessions and do not care for them, but give them away as they come to them, and travel light, unburdened, as pilgrims do towards heaven? Who are better than these? God knows they are better whom the apostle speaks to, saying in his epistle, Mortui estis et vita vestra abscondita est cum Christo in Deo. Cum autem apparuerit vita vestra, tunc et vos apparebitis cum ipso in gloria. You are dead and your life is hidden in Christ. When he who is your life appears again and rises like the day after the darkness of the night, you will rise with him, brighter than the sun, into eternal glory. The life of those who are now dead in this way is more exalted. For many things afflict pilgrims. It does not matter to the dead man if he lies unburied and rots above the ground – praise him, blame him, mistreat him, revile him, it is all equally dear to him. It is a blessed death which makes living men like this, or living women, separate from the world; but certainly whoever is dead in this way, God lives in her heart, for this is what the apostle says, Vivo ego iam non ego. Vivit autem in me Christus: I live; not I, but Christ lives in me through his indwelling grace; and it is as though he said, earthly speech, earthly vision and every earthly thing finds me dead; but that which belongs to Christ, that I see and hear and do in lively fashion. To this extent every religious person is dead to the world and yet alive to Christ.

This is a noble level, but there is one still more exalted. And who always stands there? God knows it is he who said, Michi absit gloriari nisi in cruce Domini mei, Jesu Christi, per quam michi mundus crucifixus est et ego mundo; this is what I said previously, Christ keep me from having any joy in this world except in the cross of Jesus Christ my Lord, through whom the world is worthless to me and I am worthless to it, like a criminal who is hanged. Ah, Lord, he stood high who spoke thus! And this is the level of an anchorite who has said in this way: Michi autem absit gloriari, et cetera: I glory in nothing except the cross of God, so that I now endure pain and am considered worthless as God was on the cross. Look, dear sisters, how this level is higher than any of the others is. The pilgrim on the way of the world, though he travels forward towards his home in heaven, sees and hears – and speaks, at times – what is unprofitable, and becomes angry because of injuries; and many things may hinder him from his journey. The dead man cares no more for shame than for honour, for the rough than for the smooth, because he feels neither; and so he earns neither grief nor joy; but he who is on the cross and has glory on that account, he turns shame into honour and grief into joy, and earns an outstanding reward thereby. These are the people who are never glad at heart except when they are suffering some pain or some shame with Jesus on his cross. And so this is bliss on earth, to have shame and hurt for God’s love. See then, true anchorites are not pilgrims, nor yet one of the dead, but they are of the third kind: because all their joy is to be hanged painfully and shamefully with Jesus on his cross.'

Pilgrims (Canterbury Cathedral)

The anonymous author of Ancrene Wisse is a superb writer of prose, with a flexible style which moves fluidly between high rhetoric and the rhythm and syntax of everyday speech, between the technical language of theology and ordinary English diction. Rhetorically speaking, this is my favourite bit:

Nu beoth theose gode, ah yet beoth the othre betere, for allegate pilegrimes, as ich ear seide, al gan ha eaver forth-ward, ne bicumen burh-men i the worldes burh, ham thuncheth sum-chearre god of thet ha seoth bi weie, ant edstuteth sum-deal, thah ha ne don mid alle, ant moni thing ham falleth to hwer-thurh ha beoth i-lette, swa thet - mare hearm is! - sum kimeth leate ham, sum neaver mare. Hwa is thenne skerre, ant mare ut of the world then pilegrimes? - thet is to seggen, then theo men the habbeth worltlich thing ant ne luvieth hit nawt, ah yeoveth hit as hit kimeth ham, ant gath untrusset, lihte as pilegrimes doth toward heovene?

Now these men are good, but the other sort are still better: because invariably with pilgrims, as I said before, although they keep going forwards and do not become residents in the city of the world, on occasion something they see by the road looks attractive to them and they stop for a while, though not permanently, and many things happen to them by means of which they are hindered, with the result – more’s the pity! – that some get home late, and some never at all. Who then is holier and more out of the world than pilgrims? That is to say, than those men who have worldly possessions and do not care for them, but give them away as they come to them, and travel light, unburdened, as pilgrims do towards heaven?

I love the thought of pilgrims going 'untrussed', unburdened by the things of the world. His unidealised view of pilgrims - heading to heaven, but easily distracted by 'idle games and marvels' beside the roadside - is appealing and recognisable. But the extract which reminded me of this passage today was:

For other pilegrimes gath i muche swinc to sechen ane sontes banes, as Sein James other Sein Giles, ah theo pilegrimes the gath toward heovene, ha gath to beon i-sontet, ant to finden Godd seolf ant alle his hali halhen, liviende i blisse, ant schulen livien with him i wunne buten ende. Ha i-findeth i-wis Sein Julienes in, the wei-fearinde men yeornliche bisecheth.

For other pilgrims travel with great labour to seek the bones of a single saint, such as St James or St Giles, but these pilgrims, who travel towards heaven, go to be made saints and to find God himself and all his holy hallows living in glory, and will live with him in joy without end. They truly find St Julian’s house, which wayfaring men earnestly seek.

The distinction is between going to seek 'ane sontes banes' and going 'to beon i-sontet' (to seek saints and to be 'sainted', i.e. 'made saints'); the contrasting emphasis falls beautifully on the little words, ane and beon.

The author's discussion of the three kinds of model which a holy person can follow - pilgrim, dead man, sufferer on the cross - is based on a sermon by Bernard of Clairvaux, but the saints' names here are his own addition. James, Giles and Julian were the three saints most closely associated with pilgrimage in the thirteenth century - James in particular, the archetypal pilgrim with his scrip and cockle-shell. St Julian was known instead as an accommodator of pilgrims, as a result of the legend about his life which grew up in the thirteenth century. There's a useful overview of his story here. According to the Golden Legend, Julian learned as a young man that he was destined to kill his parents. Trying to escape his fate, he fled his home (that never works, Julian!) and settled in a distant country. He got married, but one day when he was away from home his parents arrived at his house and his wife, fatally hospitable, gave them her own bed to sleep in. When Julian returned and saw the sleeping couple, he thought it was his wife in bed with another man, and so he killed them both. In penance for his sin he built hospitals and lodgings for travellers, and ferried pilgrims across the river - on one occasion, as depicted at the top of this post and below, he ferried Christ in disguise as a leper, and was told by him that his sin was forgiven.

(BL Harley 1251 f. 43)

St Julian therefore became a patron of pilgrims and travellers, a byword for hospitality - Chaucer says of his Franklin, who loves sharing the pleasures of the table and keeps open house for half the neighbourhood, that 'an housholdere, and that a greet, was he; Seint Julian was he in his contree'. And so in Ancrene Wisse 'St Julian's house' is heaven, the destination of wayfarers, a permanent lodging-place for those who pass as strangers and pilgrims through this world. Pilgrims travel to their 'home in heaven', but that journey is best made, Ancrene Wisse argues, not by travellers but by anchorites, who seek God in one fixed and steadfast place. In that dwelling, as a later English anchorite - another Julian - wrote, they find the union with God which means he becomes infinitely intimate, homely, with the soul: 'for in us is His homeliest home'.

'Set the price of your love: you cannot say so much that I will not pay more'

This extract from Ancrene Wisse follows closely (though not directly) on from the one I posted recently. As you can probably tell, the theme of this whole section is 'love' - the intention is to stir up love of God in the hearts of the anchorites, partly by drawing out the meaning of the initial statement that 'God haveth ofgan ure luve on alle cunne wise', 'God has earned our love in every kind of way'. After describing how Christ has wooed the soul like a faithful knight winning a noble lady, the author goes on to discuss the other ways in which Christ is worthy of love. First, this C. S. Lewis of the thirteenth century describes the four loves which exist in the world (his are: between friends, between men and women, between a woman and her child, and between the body and the soul), then goes on to explain how 'the love that Jesus Christ has for his dear beloved surpasses these four, and goes beyond them all'; then, in the following passage, he imagines Christ addressing the anchorite, explaining to her why she ought to give him her love.

(The translation is mine; the text is from here.)

See then, Jesus Christ’s love for his beloved spouse, the holy church and a pure soul, surpasses everything, and exceeds the four greatest loves which are found on earth. With all this love he even now woos her in this way:

"Your love," he says, "is either wholly to be given, or to be sold, or to be seized and taken by force. If it is to be given, where could you bestow it better than on me? Am I not the fairest of creatures, am I not the richest of kings, am I not the most highly born, am I not the wisest of wealthy men, am I not the most courteous of men, am I not the most generous of people? For one would say about a liberal man who can withhold nothing, that 'he has his hands pierced' as mine are. Am I not the sweetest and loveliest of all things? Thus all the reasons why love ought to be given one may find in me; above all, if you love chaste purity; for no one may love me unless she guards herself. This chastity is threefold: widowhood, marriage and maidenhood, the highest.

If your love is not to be given, but you want me to buy it – to buy it? How? Either with love or with something else. Love is sold for love – and so love ought to be sold, and for nothing else. If your love is to be sold in this way, I have bought it with love above all others; because of the four greatest loves I have shown the greatest of them all towards you. If you say you do not want to sell it at so cheap a price, but want still more, name what it shall be, set the price of your love. You cannot say so much that I will not pay more. Do you want castles, kingdoms? Do you want to rule the whole world? I will give you better – make you queen of the kingdom of heaven with all this. You shall be seven times brighter than the sun, no evil shall come near you, and joy will never be lacking for you; everything you want shall be done in heaven and on earth too, yes, even in hell; no heart ever imagined what happiness I would give you for your love, immeasurably, incomparably, infinitely more: all the wealth of Croesus, who was the richest of kings; the radiant beauty of Absalom, who as often as his hair was trimmed sold the cuttings – the hair that he cut off – for two hundred shekels weighed in silver; the speed of Asahel, who competed with deer in running; the strength of Samson, who killed a thousand of his enemies at once alone, without companions; the generosity of Caesar; the renown of Alexander; the vigour of Moses. Would not a man give all that he owned for one of these? And all these together are not worth a needle compared to my body.

If you are so very obstinate and so out of your mind that, although you have nothing to lose, you forsake such advantages and happiness of every sort, look, I hold here a cruel sword over your head with which to separate life and soul and plunge them both into the fire of hell to be the devil’s whore, shamefully and miserably for ever. Now answer and defend yourself if you can against me, or grant me your love which I long for so much, not for my sake, but for your own great advantage."

Thus our Lord woos us. Is she not very hard-hearted who after such a wooing will not turn to his love, if she thinks well about these three things, what he is, what she is, and how great is the love of one as high as he is towards one as low as she is? And so, the psalmist says 'there is nothing hidden from the heat of the sun'. There is no one who may hide away so that she may not love him. The true sun climbed up high in the third hour of the day for your sake on the high cross, in order to spread love’s hot rays; thus he was eager, and is until this day, to kindle his love in the heart of his beloved, and he says in the Gospel, 'I am come to send fire on the earth, and what will I, if it be already kindled?' I am come, he says, to bring fire to the earth, that is, burning love to earthly hearts, and what do I long for except for it to burst into flame?

Julian of Norwich contemplating 'love's hot rays'

In Middle English:

Thus, lo, Jesu Cristes luve toward his deore spuse - thet is, Hali Chirche other cleane sawle - passeth alle ant overkimeth the fowr measte luven thet me i-find on eorthe. With al this luve yetten he woheth hire o this wise:

"Thi luve," he seith, " - other hit is for-te yeoven allunge, other hit is to sullen, other hit is to reavin ant to neomen with strengthe. Yef hit is for-te yeoven, hwer maht tu biteon hit betere then up-o me? Nam ich thinge feherest? Nam ich kinge richest? Nam ich hest i-cunnet? Nam ich weolie wisest? Nam ich monne hendest? Nam ich thinge freoest? For swa me seith bi large mon the ne con nawt edhalden, thet he haveth the honden, as mine beoth, i-thurlet. Nam ich alre thinge swotest ant swetest? Thus alle the reisuns hwi me ah to yeove luve thu maht i-finden in me; nomeliche yef thu luvest chaste cleannesse. For nan ne mei luvie me bute ha hire halde. Ah ha is threo-vald: i widewehad, i spushad, i meidenhad, the heste.

Yef thi luve nis nawt to yeovene, ah wult thet me bugge hire - buggen hire? Hu? Other with other luve other with sum-hweat elles. Me suleth wel luve for luve ant swa me ah to sulle luve, ant for na thing elles. Yef thin is swa to sullen ich habbe i-boht hire with luve over alle othre. For of the fowr measte luven, ich habbe i-cud toward te the measte of ham alle. Yef thu seist thu nult nawt leote th'ron se liht chap, ah wult yette mare, nempne hweat hit schule beon. Sete feor o thi luve. Thu ne schalt seggen se muchel thet ich nule yeove mare. Wult tu castles, kinedomes? Wult tu wealden al the world? Ich chulle do the betere, makie the, with al this, cwen of heove-riche. Thu schalt te-seolf beo seove-vald brihtre then the sunne. Nan uvel ne schal nahhi the. Na wunne ne schal wonti the. Al thi wil schal beon i-wraht in heovene ant ec in eorthe - ye, ant yet in helle. Ne schal neaver heorte thenchen hwuch selhthe thet ich nule yeoven for thi luve unmeteliche, unevenliche, unendeliche mare. Al Creasuse weole, the wes kinge richest. Absalones schene wlite, the as ofte as me evesede him, salde his evesunge, the her thet he kearf of for twa hundret sicles of seolver i-weiet. Asaeles swiftschipe, the straf with heortes of urn. Samsones strengthe, the sloh a thusent of his fan al ed a time, ant ane, bute fere. Cesares freolec. Alixandres here-word. Moysese heale. Nalde a mon for an of theos yeoven al thet he ahte? Ant alle somet, ayein mi bodi, ne beoth nawt wurth a nelde.

Yef thu art se swithe ane-wil ant swa ut of thi wit thet tu, thurh nawt to leosen, forsakest swuch biyete, with alles cunnes selhthe, lo, ich halde her heatel sweord up-o thin heaved to dealen lif ant sawle, ant bisenchen ham ba into the fur of helle, to beon deofles hore schentfulliche ant sorhfulliche world abuten ende. Ondswere nu ant were the, yef thu const, ayein me, other yette me thi luve the ich yirne se swithe - nawt for min ah for thin ahne muchele biheve."

Lo, thus ure Laverd woheth. Nis ha to heard i-heortet thet a thulli wohere ne mei to his luve turnen, yef ha wel thencheth theose threo thinges: hwet he is ant hwet heo is, ant hu muchel is the luve of se heh as he is toward se lah as heo is? For-thi seith the Salm-wruhte: Non est qui se abscondat a calore ejus. Nis nan thet mahe edlutien thet ha ne mot him luvien. The sothe sunne i the under-tid wes for-thi i-stihen on heh, o the hehe rode, for-te spreaden over-al hate luve-gleames; [thus neodful he wes ant is athet tes dei to ontenden his luue i his leoues heort, & seith i the godspel, Ignem ueni mittere in terram, & quid uolo nisi ut ardeat.] "Ich com to bringen," he seith, "fur into eorthe" - thet is, bearninde luve into eorthlich heorte - "ant hwet yirne ich elles bute thet hit bleasie?"

Christ the Shield

This extract from the medieval spiritual guide Ancrene Wisse follows directly on from one I posted before, an extended analogy of Christ's courtship of the soul as a king wooing a noble lady whose castle is besieged by enemies. The section which follows, which draws out parallels between Christ's body and a knight's shield, is based on St Bernard's commentary on Psalm 91.

In Middle English (from here):

Thes king is Jesu, Godes sune, thet al o thisse wise wohede ure sawle, the deoflen hefden biset. Ant he as noble wohere efter monie messagers ant feole god-deden com to pruvien his luve ant schawde thurh cnihtschipe thet he wes luve-wurthe, as weren sum-hwile cnihtes i-wunet to donne - dude him i turneiment ant hefde for his leoves luve his scheld i feht as kene cniht on euche half i-thurlet. His scheld, the wreah his Godd-head, wes his leove licome thet wes i-spread o rode, brad as scheld buven in his i-strahte earmes, nearow bineothen as the an fot - efter mon ies wene - set up-o the other. Thet this scheld naveth siden is for bitacnunge thet his deciples the schulden stonden bi him ant habben i-beon his siden fluhen alle from him ant leafden him as fremede, as the Godspel seith: Relicto eo omnes fugerunt.

This scheld is i-yeven us ayein alle temptatiuns, as Jeremie witneth: Dabis scutum cordis laborem tuum. Nawt ane this scheld ne schilt us from alle uveles, ah deth yet mare, cruneth us in heovene. Scuto bone voluntatis. "Laverd," he seith, Davith, "with the scheld of thi gode wil thu havest us i-crunet." "Scheld" he seith "of god wil," for willes he tholede al thet he tholede. Ysaias: Oblatus est quia voluit.

"Me, Laverd," thu seist, "hwer-to ne mahte he with leasse gref habben arud us?" Yeoi, i-wiss, ful lihtliche, ah he nalde. For-hwi? For-te bineomen us euch bitellunge ayein him of ure luve thet he se deore bohte. Me buth lihtliche thing thet me luveth lutel. He bohte us with his heorte blod - deorre pris nes neaver - for-te ofdrahen of us ure luve toward him, thet costnede him se sare.

I scheld beoth threo thinges: the treo, ant te lether, ant te litunge. Alswa wes i this scheld the treo of the rode, thet lether of Godes licome, the litunge of the reade blod thet heowede hire se feire.

Eft the thridde reisun: efter kene cnihtes death, me hongeth hehe i chirche his scheld on his mungunge. Alswa is this scheld - thet is, the crucifix - i chirche i-set i swuch stude ther me hit sonest seo, for-te thenchen ther-bi o Jesu Cristes cnihtschipe, thet he dude o rode. His leofmon bihalde th'ron hu he bohte hire luve, lette thurlin his scheld, openin his side, to schawin hire his heorte, to schawin hire openliche hu inwardliche he luvede hire, ant to ofdrahen hire heorte.

A symbolic knight's shield (see this page)

This king is Jesus, the Son of God, who in this way wooed our souls, which devils had besieged; and, like a noble suitor, after many messengers and many acts of kindness he came himself to give proof of his love, and showed by his chivalry that he was worthy to be loved, as knights used to do in the old days. He fought in a tournament, and for the love of his beloved had a shield in the battle, like a valiant knight, pierced on either side. His shield, which concealed his Godhead, was his precious body that was spread on the cross: broad like a shield at the top across his outstretched arms, and narrow beneath, since one foot, it is thought, was placed over the other. The fact that a shield does not have sides signifies that his disciples, who should have stood by him and been his sides, all fled from him and left him like strangers: as the Gospel says, 'all the disciples forsook him and fled'.

This shield is given to us to guard against all temptations, as Jeremiah bears witness: 'You will give them a covered heart'. Not only does this shield guard us from all evils, but it does still more: 'it crowns us in heaven with favour as with a shield'. 'Lord', David says, 'you will have us crowned with the shield of your goodwill' – the 'shield of goodwill', he says, because Christ willingly suffered all that he suffered. Thus Isaiah: 'He was offered because it was his own will.'

But, Lord! you say - could he not have redeemed us with less pain? Yes, indeed, very easily; but he did not want to. Why not? In order to deprive us of any excuse for not showing him the love which he bought at such a high price. People buy for a low price things they do not care about. He bought us with his heart’s blood – there never was a dearer price! – in order to attract our love towards him, which cost him so heavily.

A shield is made up of three things, the wood, the leather, and the paint. This shield was too: the wood of the cross, the skin of God’s body, and the paint of the red blood which coloured it so beautifully.

Furthermore, there is a third reason. After a brave knight’s death, his shield is hung up high in the church in his memory. This shield is too: that is, the crucifix is placed in the church in a place where it can most easily be seen, so that one may thereby remember the feat of arms which Jesus Christ performed on the cross. His beloved can see there how he bought her love: he allowed his shield to be pierced, his side to be opened to show her his heart, to show her openly how he loved her inwardly, and to draw her heart towards him.

Christ the Knight

"Crist," seith Seinte Pawel, "luvede swa his leofmon thet he yef for hire the pris of him-seolven." Neometh nu gode yeme, mine leove sustren, for-hwi me ah him to luvien. Earst as a mon the woheth, as a king thet luvede a gentil povre leafdi of feorrene londe. He sende his sonden bivoren - thet weren the patriarches ant te prophetes of the alde testament - with leattres i-sealet. On ende he com him-seolven ant brohte the Godspel as leattres i-openet ant wrat with his ahne blod saluz to his leofmon, luve-gretunge, for-te wohin hire with ant hire luve wealden. Her-to falleth a tale, a wrihe forbisne.

A leafdi wes mid hire fan biset al abuten, hire lond al destruet, ant heo al povre in-with an eorthene castel. A mihti kinges luve wes thah biturnd upon hire swa unimete swithe, thet he for wohlech sende hire his sonden, an efter other, ofte somet monie, sende hire beawbelez bathe feole ant feire, sucurs of liveneth, help of his hehe hird to halden hire castel. Heo underfeng al as on unrecheles, ant swa wes heard i-heortet, thet hire luve ne mahte he neaver beo the neorre.

Hwet wult tu mare? He com him-seolf on ende, schawde hire his feire neb, as the the wes of alle men feherest to bihalden, spec se swithe swoteliche, ant wordes se murie, thet ha mahten deade arearen to live, wrahte feole wundres ant dude muchele meistries bivoren hire eh-sihthe, schawde hire his mihte, talde hire of his kinedom, bead to makien hire cwen of al thet he ahte. Al this ne heold nawt - nes this hoker wunder?

For heo nes neaver wurthe for-te beon his thuften, ah swa thurh his deboneirte luve hefde overcumen him, thet he seide on ende, "Dame, thu art i-weorret ant thine van beoth se stronge thet tu ne maht nanes-weis withute mi sucurs edfleon hare honden, thet ha ne don the to scheome death efter al thi weane. Ich chulle for the luve of the neome thet feht up-o me ant arudde the of ham the thi death secheth. Ich wat thah to sothe thet ich schal bituhen ham neomen deathes wunde, ant ich hit wulle heorteliche for-te ofgan thin heorte. Nu thenne biseche ich the, for the luve thet ich cuthe the, thet tu luvie me lanhure efter the ilke dede dead, hwen thu naldest lives." Thes king dude al thus: arudde hire of alle hire van, ant wes him-seolf to wundre i-tuket ant i-slein on ende - thurh miracle aras thah from deathe to live. Nere theos ilke leafdi of uveles cunnes cunde, yef ha over alle thing ne luvede him her-efter?

Thes king is Jesu, Godes sune, thet al o thisse wise wohede ure sawle, the deoflen hefden biset. Ant he as noble wohere efter monie messagers ant feole god-deden com to pruvien his luve ant schawde thurh cnihtschipe thet he wes luve-wurthe, as weren sum-hwile cnihtes i-wunet to donne - dude him i turneiment ant hefde for his leoves luve his scheld i feht as kene cniht on euche half i-thurlet. His scheld, the wreah his Godd-head, wes his leove licome thet wes i-spread o rode, brad as scheld buven in his i-strahte earmes, nearow bineothen as the an fot - efter mon ies wene - set up-o the other.

From Ancrene Wisse, Part 7. That is:

Christ, says St Paul, so loved his beloved that he gave for her the price of himself. Now pay good attention, my dear sisters, and learn why we should love him. First, as a man who woos, like a king who loved a noble poor lady from a distant land. He sent his messengers ahead with sealed letters - these were the patriarchs and prophets of the Old Testament. In the end he came himself and brought the gospel as opened letters, and wrote with his own blood greetings to his beloved, a salutation of love in order to woo her and gain her love. There is a story about this, an example with a hidden meaning.

A lady was besieged all around with enemies, her land all laid waste, and herself made poor, within a castle made of earth. However, a mighty king loved her so extravagantly that he sent her his messengers in courtship, one after another, often many together; he sent her many fair and splendid gifts, reinforcements and provisions, and help from his noble army to protect her castle. She received all these things without thought, and was so hard-hearted that he was never able to come any closer to her love.

What more do you want? In the end he came himself and showed her his beautiful face, as he who was of all men the fairest to look at. He spoke to her so sweetly with words so pleasant that they might bring the dead back to life, performed many marvels and did works of power before her eyes, showed her his power, told her about his kingdom and offered to make her queen of all that he owned. All this was of no use. Is not such disdain a strange thing? For she was not worthy to be his handmaid. But through his graciousness love had so vanquished him that in the end he said, "Lady, you are beleaguered, and your enemies are so strong that you will not escape their hands by any means without my help; they will put you to a shameful death after all your misery. Because of my love for you, I want to take the battle upon myself and deliver you from those who seek your death. However, I know that among them I shall receive my death-wound, and I will do so with all my heart, to gain your heart. So now I beseech you, for the love which I have made known to you, that you will at least love me after this deed, when I am dead, if you will not when I am alive." The king did all this: he delivered her from all her enemies and was outrageously ill-treated himself, and eventually slain; by a miracle he rose from the dead to life. Was not this lady from the stock of a wicked race, if she did not love him after this above all things?

This king is Jesus, the Son of God, who in this way wooed our souls, which the devil had besieged; and, like a noble suitor, after many messengers and many acts of kindness he came himself to give proof of his love, and showed by his chivalry that he was worthy to be loved, as knights used to do at one time: he fought in a tournament, and for the love of his beloved had a shield in the battle, like a valiant knight, pierced on either side. His shield, which concealed his Godhead, was his precious body that was spread on the cross: broad like a shield at the top across his outstretched arms, and narrow beneath, since one foot, as many people think, was placed over the other.