Good Friday Alone

The Virgin Mary and Christ, in a Book of Hours of c.1510-20 (BL Add MS 35214, f. 27)

Alone alone alone alone
Sore I sigh and all for one.

As I went this enders day [the other day]
Alone walking on my play
I heard a lady sing and say
'Woe is me and all alone!
Alone alone alone alone
Sore I sigh and all for one.'

To that place I drew me near
Of her song somewhat to hear.
There sat a lady with sorry cheer [a sad countenance]
That sore did sigh and groan,
'Alone alone alone alone
Sore I sigh and all for one.

Behold, my son crowned with thorn,
And all his body rent and torn,
Put to death with shame and scorn,
For mankind's sake alone.
Alone alone alone alone
Sore I sigh and all for one.'

For sooth it was a wondrous sight
To see her child, how it was dight [arranged, ordained]
For to bring mankind to light
To save us from our fone. [foes]
Alone alone alone alone
Sore I sigh and all for one.

Sith it will no better be [since it can be no better]
Pray we to that child so free
That we may him in heaven see
What we shall hence gone. [when we depart from here]
Alone alone alone alone
Sore I sigh and all for one.

For many of us this will be a solitary Good Friday, and so I've been thinking about the place of solitude - aloneness - in medieval imaginings of the story of Christ's Passion. This is a carol from the 16th century, an example of a very widespread poetic tradition giving voice to Mary's grief for her son, which takes the word alone as its refrain and keynote. The text is from a printed book of c.1550, and I've modernised the spelling from the carol as edited in Greene's Early English Carols. When I first read this poem, I was reminded of a similar carol, a few decades older, which also makes use of the moving refrain 'alone' - but this is a carol set at an earlier moment in Mary's life, when her son is still an infant. There her baby, as she ('alone') tries to soothe his crying, tells her the real reason why he is weeping so bitterly:

'Mother,' he said, 'how should I sleep?
How should I leave my moan?
I have more cause to sob and weep,
Since I shall die alone.'

She is horrified at this declaration, as anyone would be. He explains to her that it is necessary, since he - and he 'alone' - must save mankind by his death, but she already sees the grief and loneliness it will mean for her:

'Dear son,' she said, 'since thou hast take
Of me both flesh and bone,
If it may be, me not forsake
In care and woe alone...

'Dear son,' she said unto him tho [then]
'When thou from me art gone,
Then shall I live in care and woe
Without comfort alone.'

He cannot tell her she will not grieve or have to bear solitude, but his comfort is to promise her that he will, in the end, ease her loneliness:

'Mother,' he said, 'take thou no thought,
For me make thou no moan;
When I have bought that I have wrought, [when I have redeemed what I created]
Thou shalt not be alone.'

This kind of interaction, where Mary begs her son not to die and leave her alone and grieving, is also a frequent part of poetic dialogues in the 'Stabat Mater' tradition. Many medieval poets devoted attention to imagining Mary's feelings at these different moments of grief: when as a young mother she begins to understand what her child's future will hold, when she sees her son dying in front of her eyes, when she holds his body in her arms. There are countless examples of poems in this tradition, and many of them are absolutely heartbreaking. Even if you don't have much sympathy with this emotive style of devotion, it's hard not to be moved by these poems; they are powerful expressions of grief and love which will resonate - as they are designed to - with every reader's own personal experiences of loss. Mary's grief is unique, but also universal. Hers is a parent's grief, and every time I hear the strange canard that, because infant mortality was high in the Middle Ages, medieval people didn't really love their children or grieve for them when they died, I think of these heart-wrenching poems; they are born of, and absolutely depend on, a widespread cultural acceptance that the loss of a child is one of the most devastating experiences a person can imagine. But these poems aren't only meant for parents, but for everyone, and they aim to draw on wells of tears springing from many other kinds of love and grief. They expect the audience to recognise and respond to it with strong emotion, weeping as Mary weeps.

The 'Alone' carol is probably meant to evoke a Pietà image, Mary holding Christ's body in her arms, and the characteristic feature of that artistic and literary tradition (as distinct from, for instance, Deposition and Entombment scenes where Mary holds her son's body) is that it's only the two of them. She is alone with him, and yet he's not there - she only has his dead body to cradle, a particularly painful kind of solitude. In the first carol the speaker is also 'alone' when they witness Mary's lament, and so her solitude echoes their own. Such poems are often framed as an encounter with Mary, where the speaker of the poem - as here - comes across her unexpectedly, or sees her suddenly appear to them in a vision. We never learn much about the speaker (they're not much more a pair of eyes and ears through which the reader is able to see and hear) but we are told that they are, very often, 'alone' - here wandering out for a solitary ramble, and in other poems lying awake at night, 'alone in my longing'. It's at such moments that these poems might be designed to be read and meditated upon; in solitude, the reader has time to reflect and to feel, to open their heart to what they read, and perhaps even to encounter some kind of mystical or visionary experience.

Alone in quarantine: Christ enters the desert for his 'karenine', his forty-day fast (BL Yates Thompson MS. 13, f. 111)

A focus on aloneness is also appropriate when attempting to consider Christ's own suffering at the Passion, in which there are several key moments where he is, humanly speaking, completely alone. I wrote in my last post about Christ's entry into what was in the Middle Ages called 'quarantine', his solitary forty days in the desert, and the story of his death has more such moments: the Agony in the Garden, the silence of the tomb. In medieval liturgy, the ritual reenactment of those days used a variety of means to powerfully evoke those experiences of isolation and desolation - the gradually enveloping darkness of the Tenebrae service, the stark exposure of the stripped altar and the empty tabernacle, the extensive use of silence both within and around the liturgy of the day. (There's some evidence that in early medieval England the last three days of Holy Week were known as 'the silent days', swigdagas.) Even when experienced collectively, these practices cut off the individual worshipper from those around them, alone in a silent and perhaps invisible crowd.

In extra-liturgical devotional practice, the believer might also be encouraged to go with Christ into that aloneness, to - paradoxically, in a way - share his solitude. One early English example occurs in the Anglo-Saxon poem The Dream of the Rood, a vision of the Passion story narrated by the cross, in which Christ is imagined alone in the tomb, 'weary after the great battle': reste he ðær mæte weorode, 'he rested there, with little company' (that's the understated Anglo-Saxon way of saying 'completely alone'). The same words are then, significantly, repeated of the person who is having this vision, lying awake while others are sleeping; the dreamer says the vision appeared þær ic ana wæs / mæte werede, 'where I was, alone, with little company'. In that aloneness, the dreamer comes so close to Christ that the same words describe them both.

Alone and not alone: the Agony in the Garden, with Christ accompanied in the darkness by faces keeping watch (BL Yates Thompson MS. 13, f. 118v)

But though solitude may offer a way to communicate with the divine, it may also heighten and intensify human grief. In another Anglo-Saxon poem, the focus is instead on Mary Magdalene and the other women among Christ's followers who went to the tomb early on Easter morning, and found it empty. The poem speaks of their anxiety about their Lord being left alone; the word, ana, is repeated twice within a few lines. 'They thought that he would have to lie in the grave / alone on that Easter night.' There's something so poignant about that attribution to them of the very natural desire to be with the body of the person they are mourning - even in death, they don't want him to be alone. It was a key part of medieval meditative practice to enter into these Biblical experiences of grief in the most naturalistic way possible, by drawing on your own knowledge or fear of how it feels to lose someone you love, or not to be able to mourn them as you would wish. An even more powerful expression of this idea is offered by St Anselm, in his prayer to Mary Magdalene, where he imagines with extraordinary sensitivity the depth of her grief at not being able to find the body of Jesus when she went to the tomb to anoint him:

More than all this, what can I say, how can I find words to tell, about the burning love with which you sought him, weeping at the sepulchre, and wept for him in your seeking? How he came, who can say how or with what kindness, to comfort you, and made you burn with love still more; how he hid from you when you wanted to see him, and showed himself when you did not think to see him; how he was there all the time you sought him, and how he sought you when, seeking him, you wept.

But you, most holy Lord, why do you ask her why she weeps? Surely you can see; her heart, the dear life of her soul, is cruelly slain. O love to be wondered at; O evil to be shuddered at; you hung on the wood, pierced by iron nails, stretched out like a thief for the mockery of wicked men; and yet, "Woman," you say, "why are you weeping?" She had not been able to prevent them from killing you, but at least she longed to keep your body for a while with ointments lest it decay. No longer able to speak with you living, at least she could mourn for you dead. So, near to death and hating her own life, she repeats in broken tones the words of life which she had heard from the living. And now, besides all this, even the body which she was glad, in a way, to have kept, she believes to have gone. And can you ask her, "Woman, why are you weeping?" Had she not reason to weep? For she had seen with her own eyes -- if she could bear to look -- what cruel men cruelly did to you; and now all that was left of you from their hands she thinks she has lost. All hope of you has fled, for now she has not even your lifeless body to remind her of you. And someone asks, "Who are you looking for? Why are you weeping?" You, her sole joy, should be the last thus to increase her sorrow. But you know it all well, and thus you wish it to be, for only in such broken words and sighs can she convey a cause of grief as great as hers...

But now, good Lord, gentle Master, look upon your faithful servant and disciple, so lately redeemed by your blood, and see how she burns with anxiety, desiring you, searching all round, questioning, and what she longs for is nowhere found. Nothing she sees can satisfy her, since you whom alone she would behold, she sees not. What then? How long will my Lord leave his beloved to suffer thus? Have you put off compassion now you have put on incorruption? Did you let go of goodness when you laid hold of immortality?

Mary Magdalene was famous for her tears (which is why her name became our word maudlin), and Anselm dwells on them at length in his prayer, with the intention of evoking answering tears in himself and in the reader. These tears of grief will turn to tears of joy, and yet Anselm explores how closely mingled the two must be, must have been:

For love's sake he cannot bear her grief for long or go on hiding himself. For the sweetness of love he shows himself who would not for the bitterness of tears. The Lord calls his servant by the name she has often heard and the servant knows the voice of her own Lord. I think, or rather I am sure, that she responded to the gentle tone with which he was accustomed to call, "Mary." What joy filled that voice, so gentle and full of love. He could not have put it more simply and clearly: "I know who you are and what you want; behold me; do not weep, behold me; I am he whom you seek." At once the tears are changed; I do not believe that they stopped at once, but where once they were wrung from a heart broken and self-tormenting they flow now from a heart exulting.

The Burial of Christ (BL Harley MS. 2915, f. 173v)

Such prayers as this were the beginning of the devotional tradition which sought to approach God through human emotion, and which culminated in such poems as the 'Alone' carol. That song falls into the genre known as Planctus Mariae, 'the lament of Mary', and planctus of all kinds is a very popular form in medieval literature (compleint is the usual Middle English term). One purpose of planctus as a literary genre, whether the one lamenting is Mary or Dido, is that it gives space and voice to sorrow, to the kinds of emotion we all feel, but can't often express except through poetry, through other people's words. On this particular Good Friday, when grief is all around us, it is perhaps more important than ever to make space for those emotions, to acknowledge and find words for them. In the 'Alone' carol the grief is attached to one particular story - Christ's Passion - but much of its expression is taken from the wider tradition of compleint, which encompasses many other kinds of love and sorrow. Its refrain, 'Sore I sigh and all for one', very clearly echoes the language of secular love-songs; it could conceivably have been borrowed from an existing love-song, as was a common practice. Compare the similar phrasing found in the 16th-century manuscript below: 'Alone I live, alone, and sore I sigh for one'. In medieval love poems, too, it's conventional (as you might expect!) to lament loneliness, to pine for the absent and to long for reunion. Here's an example comparable to our 'Alone' carol by the 15th-century poet Charles d'Orleans, which begins:

Alone am y and wille to be alone;
Alone, withouten plesere or gladnes,
Alone in care, to sighe and grone,
Alone, to wayle the deth of my maystres,
Alone, which sorow will me neuyr cesse.
Alone, I curse the liif I do endure.
Alone this fayntith me my gret distres,
Alone I lyve, an ofcast creature.

[Alone am I, and want to be alone;
Alone, without pleasure or gladness,
Alone in sorrow, to sigh and groan,
Alone, to bewail the death of my mistress,
Alone, the sorrow which will never cease for me.
Alone, I curse the life I endure,
Alone, my great distress makes me faint,
Alone I live, an outcast creature.]

Each stanza continues in this way; read the whole thing here.

The transference of language like this between religious verse and secular love-poetry apparently did not seem as odd in the Middle Ages as it might to us today; it could in fact be a source of inspiration for religious poets and preachers, as they sought to articulate the experience of love wherever it might be found - with the belief that ultimately, truly and most completely, it will always be found in Christ. Looking for other comparable 'alone' poems, I came across a 14th-century sermon for Good Friday, which incorporates several short lyrics or couplets in English within the predominantly Latin text. The focus of the sermon is a quotation from the Song of Songs which was immensely popular in medieval devotional writing: amore langueo, 'I languish for love'. (This is also the refrain of two of the finest Middle English lyrics: one spoken by Christ, 'In a valley of restless mind', and the other by Mary, 'In a tabernacle of a tower, as I stood musing on the moon'). Here these words of love - from a book of course full of erotic desire - are interpreted as if they are Christ's, and as if they describe his actions on Good Friday. First, the author explains the paradoxical nature of Good Friday ('a doubtful day of feast and fast', he might have said!):

Dearly beloved, I think I can rightly say that this is a blissful day and a sorrowful day. It is a blissful day because on it occurred one of the greatest joys that ever happened to the human race, for mankind was led out of servitude, and he who was a slave became free. That this day was blessed among all that ever have been is proven by blessed Gregory when he says, 'What would we have gained by Christ's birth if he had not redeemed us?' as if to say, nothing. Since such great joy came to mankind on this day, we can say with the Psalmist, 'This is the day the Lord has made,' etc. Likewise, this is a sorrowful day because one of the most pitiful and sorrowful things that have ever happened occurred on it, for today, he who was innocent and without stain of sin was unreasonably and falsely killed and ended his life in pain like a lamb; and thus is fulfilled what he himself said through the prophet in a psalm: 'My life has ended in pain,' etc.

(This translation is from Siegfried Wenzel, Macaronic Sermons: Bilingualism and Preaching in Late-Medieval England (Ann Arbor, 1994); the bolded phrases mark words which in the original appear in English, while the rest is in Latin.) The preacher then goes on to expound his text, and to explore what it might mean to say that Christ 'languishes for love'.

Dearly beloved, you should understand that not every love is a languishing love, but only intense love is said to be languishing, that is, when someone loves something so much that he thinks of nothing else beside it, nor has any taste or delight except for it alone. Such love did Christ have for us, as he clearly shows today. Hence we must in return have the same love for him. Speaking of such languishing love, it seems to me that I find seven clear signs by which we can recognize a man who languishes in love. They are:

He lesus is myth and waxit wan
He syket as a sorful man
Alone he drawes fro compenye
And euer he herkenes one ys drurie.
Louelyche he spekis to hys herte
For hym he suffrus peynis smert
Thorow tokenys of 3yftes 3yuynge
He schewet in hert loue-murnyng.

[He loses his strength and grows pale;
He sighs as a sorrowful man;
Alone he draws from company,
And he always listens for his beloved.
Lovingly he speaks to his heart,
For whom he suffers pains smart.
Through tokens of gifts given,
He shows in heart love-mourning.]

These are the seven signs by which we can tell a person who languishes from love, and all of them were on this day found in Christ.

He goes on to explain, one by one, how each of these features of the pining human lover could be seen in Christ on the day of his Passion. 'Alone he draws from company' is a characteristic of the lover (like Charles d'Orleans) but in the story of Good Friday, it's literally true of Christ:

The third sign of languishing love is that he who languishes for love withdraws from company, for there can be no companionship for him except that of his beloved. In this way Christ was alone, for no one remained with him, even 'his disciples abandoned him and fled.' At that time they did not yet fully believe in him, for they did not expect him to rise from the dead, all except the Blessed Virgin, in whom the Church's faith stood alive during those three days.

This offers a more positive reading of Christ 'alone' on Good Friday. In one sense his solitude is an abandonment, a painful isolation - but it's also an act of love, undertaken for the good of others. In this analogy 'his beloved' is all mankind; he withdraws from the company of his closest friends as an act of self-sacrifice, putting aside his particular love for his friends for the love of humanity in general. I wonder if there has ever been a Good Friday in the six centuries since this sermon was written when that interpretation of his aloneness has hit so close to home.

'My folk, what have I done to thee?

'Popule meus', in a 13th-century manuscript, BL Add. 18031, f. 174

One of the most dramatic and powerful parts of the traditional Good Friday liturgy is the Improperia, the 'Reproaches' in which Christ is imagined speaking from the cross. Recalling numerous key events of Old Testament history, the text contrasts these moments of God's love and protection of his people with the suffering inflicted on him during his Passion. The Improperia are dramatic in every sense, adopting the voice of Christ as he reproaches his people and draws a series of contrasts between past and present: what he has done for mankind, contrasted with the pain they are now causing him to suffer. Here's the Latin text, and here's a recording of it being sung; in Latin and in translation it's been set by various composers, and this version is one familiar to me.

There are several medieval English translations of this text, which form a sub-genre of a very extensive tradition of poems in which Christ addresses mankind from the cross. ('Unkynde man, give heed to me' is a typical example of that genre.) Perhaps the most memorable of these appeals occurs in the middle of the dramatic re-enactment of the Crucifixion in the York Plays. In this play Christ speaks only twice, silent as he is nailed to the cross; but when he is lifted up he speaks a complete twelve-line verse, calling on 'Al men that walkis by waye or strete' to witness his suffering. In the streets of medieval York, where these plays were performed, these words would be spoken directly to the audience and passersby - just as in the Good Friday liturgy Christ's 'reproaches' are intended to transcend their historical context to speak to every congregation, every soul.

The following poetic translation of the Improperia is by William Herebert, and dates to the early 14th century. The poet-preacher John of Grimestone also wrote a version of this text a few decades later.

My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

For from Egypte ich ladde thee,
Thou me ledest to rode tree.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Thorou wyldernesse ich ladde thee,
And fourty yer bihedde thee,
And aungeles bred ich yaf to thee,
And into reste ich brouhte thee.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

What more shulde ich haven ydon
That thou ne havest nouth underfon?
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Ich thee fedde and shrudde thee,
And thou wyth eysyl drinkst to me
And wyth spere styngest me.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Ich Egypte beth for thee
And here tem yshlou for thee.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Ich delede the see for thee,
And dreynte Pharaon for thee,
And thou to princes sullest me.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

In bem of cloude ich ladde thee,
And to Pylat thou ledest me.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Wyth aungeles mete ich fedde thee,
And thou bufetest and scourgest me.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Of the ston ich dronk to thee,
And thou wyth galle drincst to me.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Kynges of Chanaan ich for thee bet,
And thou betest myn heved wyth red.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Ich gaf thee croune of kynedom,
And thou me gyfst a croune of thorn.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

Ich muchel worshype dede to the,
And thou me hongest on rode tree.
My folk, what habbe I do thee?
Other in what thyng toened thee?
Gyn nouthe and onswere thou me.

BL Arundel 83, f. 116v (early 14th century)

Here's a (lightly) modernised version of Herebert's poem.

My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

For from Egypt I led thee;
Thou leadest me to rood-tree.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

Through the wilderness I led thee,
And forty years I cared for thee,
And angels' bread I gave to thee,
And into rest I brought thee.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

What more should I have done
That thou hast not underfon? [received]
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

I thee fed and clothed thee,
And thou givest vinegar for drink to me
And with spear stingest me.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

I Egypt scourged for thee
And their offspring slew for thee.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

I divided the sea for thee,
And drowned Pharaoh for thee,
And thou to princes sellest me.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

With beam of cloud I led thee,
And to Pilate thou leadest me.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

With angels' meat I fed thee,
And thou buffetest and scourgest me.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

From the stone I gave drink to thee,
And thou with gall givest drink to me.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

Kings of Canaan I for thee beat,
And thou beatest my head with a reed.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

I gave thee a crown of kingdom [i.e. kingship],
And thou me givest a crown of thorn.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

I great honour gave to thee,
And thou me hangest on rood-tree.
My folk, what have I done to thee?
Or in what thing angered thee?
Speak now, and answer me.

As you can see, Herebert manages to make almost every line of his poem rhyme on either 'me' or 'thee', to highlight the simple but stark contrast which lies at the heart of this text: God's love and man's cruelty. This is a poetic device Herebert has taken from the refrain of the Latin text and carried through into the verses (which don't rhyme in the Latin):

Popule meus, quid feci tibi?
Aut in quo contristavi te?
Responde mihi.

Herebert makes several of his verses rhyme on these same pronouns and the same thematic contrast between the actions of Christ and 'his folk': mihi and tibi, me and thee. Since for Herebert 'I' would also be pronounced more like 'ee', the sound and contrast are there in the repeated refrain too: My folk, what habbe I do thee? Irony is the key to this poem, and it's all in those pronouns.

For another poem by William Herebert for Holy Week, see the wonderful 'What is he, this lordling, which cometh from the fight?'

'When I see blossoms spring'

Iffley, Oxford

When I se blosmes springe,
And here foules song,
A suete love-longynge
Myn herte thourhout stong,
Al for a love newe
That is so suete and trewe,
That gladieth al my song.
Ich wot al myd iwisse
My joie and eke my blisse
On him is al ylong.

Of Jesu Crist hi synge,
That is so fayr and fre,
Swetest of alle thynge;
His othwe hic oghe wel boe.
Wl fer he me sothte,
Myd hard he me bothte,
Wyth wnde to and three;
Wel sore he was yswnge,
And for me myd spere ystunge,
Ynayled to the tree.

When I miselve stonde
And with myn eyen seo
Thurled fot and honde
With grete nayles threo,
Blody wes ys heued,
On him nes nout bileved
That wes of peynes freo.
Wel, wel ohte myn herte
For his love to smerte,
And sike and sory beo.

Jesu, milde and softe,
Yef me streynthe and myht
Longen sore and ofte
To lovye the aryht.
Pyne to tholie and dreye
For the sone, Marye.
Thou art so fre and bryht,
Mayden and moder mylde,
For love of thine childe,
Ernde us heven lyht.

Alas, that I ne con
Turne to him my thoht,
And cheosen him to lemmon!
So duere he us hath yboht
With woundes deope and stronge,
With peynes sore and longe,
Of love ne conne we noht.
His blod that feol to grounde,
Of hise suete wounde,
Of peyne us hath yboht.

Jesu, milde and suete,
I synge the mi song;
Ofte I the grete
And preye the among.
Let me sunnes lete,
And in this lyve bete
That Ich have do wrong.
At oure lyves ende,
When we shule wende,
Jesu, us undefong.
Amen.

Here's a springtime poem for Eastertide from the early fourteenth century. It's one of the 'Harley lyrics', from the collection of English, French and Latin poems found in British Library, Harley 2253, where it looks like this:

(The second verse I've included here comes from another version of the poem in British Library, MS Royal 2. F. VIII.)

A modernised version:

When I see blossoms spring,
And hear the birds' song,
A sweet love-longing
My heart through-stung, [pierces]
All for a love new
That is so sweet and true,
That gladdens all my song:
I know in truth, iwis,
My joy and all my bliss
On him is all ylong. [is all because of him]

Of Jesu Christ I sing,
Who is so fair and free, [noble]
Sweetest of all thing;
His own ought I well to be.
So far for me he sought,
With suffering he me bought,
With wounds two and three;
Well sore he was swung,
And for me with spear was stung,
Nailed to the tree.

When I myself stand
And with my eyes see
Pierced foot and hand
With great nails three;
Bloody was his head,
On him was nothing left
That of pain was free;
Well, well ought my heart
For his love to smart,
And sigh and sorry be.

Jesu, mild and soft, [merciful and gentle]
Give me strength and might
To long sore and oft
To love thee aright.
Pain to thole and dree [suffer and endure]
For thy son, Mary,
Thou art so free and bright!
Maid and mother mild
For love of thy child,
Win for us heaven's light.

Alas, that I am not able
To turn to him my thought,
And choose him as my love!
So dear he us hath bought
With wounds deep and strong,
With pains sore and long,
Of love we know nothing at all!
His blood that fell to ground,
From his sweet wounds,
From pain us hath bought. [redeemed]

Jesu, mild and sweet,
I sing thee my song;
Often I thee greet [cry to thee]
And pray to thee among:
Let me sins forsake,
And in this life amends make
For what I have done wrong.
At our life's end,
When we shall wend, [depart]
Jesu, us underfong. [receive]
Amen.

Blossoming cross (BL Stowe 39, f. 23v)

'When I see blossoms spring', with its speaker pierced to love-longing by blossom and birdsong, begins very like another of the Harley lyrics (well, several of them, actually):

Bytuene Mersh and Aueril,
When spray biginneth to springe,
The lutel foul hath hire wyl
On hyre lud to synge.
Ich libbe in love-longinge
For semlokest of alle thynge;
He may me blisse bringe;
Icham in hire baundoun.

(Between March and April, when the blossom begins to spring, the little bird takes her pleasure in singing in her own tongue. I live in love-longing for the loveliest of all things. She can bring me to bliss; I am in her power.)

But this one is a secular love-poem, and the love-longing in this case is for a woman called Alisoun. The first verses of these two poems are almost interchangeable - gender aside - and you can see how smoothly 'When I see blossoms spring' takes the conventions of springtime love-poetry and applies them to Christ. The rich associations between spring and Easter, renewal and rebirth, must have made such a device seem quite natural (in every sense), as in the texts I looked at in my last post and many others. You might like to compare the slightly earlier 'Summer is come and winter gone'.

'The lutel foul', BL, Royal 3 D VI, f.116

'O sinful man, give me thine heart'

The Crucifixion in a 15th-century Book of Hours (BL Sloane 2321, f.111v)

Reuert, reuert, reuert, reuert;
O synfull man, geve me thyn hert.

Haue myende how I mankyende haue take
Of a pure mayde, man, for thy sake,
That were moost bonde, moost fre to make:
O synfull man, geve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, thou synfull creature,
I toke baptyme in thy nature
Fro filthe of synne to make the pure:
O synfull man, geve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, man, how I toke the felde
Vpon my bak bering my shelde;
For payne ne dethe I wolde not yelde;
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, I was put on the rode
And for thy sake shedde my hert blode.
Beholde my payne, beholde my moode:
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Beholde me, hede, hande, foote, and side,
Beholde my woundes fyve so wyde,
Beholde the payne that I abyde:
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, man, how fast I was bounde
For thy sake to a pilloure rounde,
Scorged till my bloode feil to grounde:
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, how I in fourme of bred
Haue left my flesshe and blode to wedde,
To make the quyk, whenne thou art dedde:
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Haue myende, man, how I haue the wrought,
How with my bloode I haue the bought,
And how to blis I haue the brought;
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

O synfull man, beholde and see,
What I haue done and do for the.
Yf thou wilte be in blis with me,
O synfull man, yeve me thyn hert.

Bothe for my dethe and paynes smert,
That I suffred for thy desert,
I aske no more, man, but thyne hert:
Reuert, reuert, reuert, reuert.

This is another poem from CUL MS. Ee 1.12, which in that manuscript follows the two 'Nolo mortem peccatoris' poems and precedes 'O man, whiche art the erthe take froo'. The speaker is, of course, Christ, and the refrain, 'revert' is perhaps supposed to echo Isaiah 44:22: 'Return to me, for I have redeemed you'.

The Crucifixion in a 15th-century Book of Hours (BL Harley 2915 f. 167v)

Revert, revert, revert, revert;
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind how I mankind have take
Of a pure maid, man, for thy sake,
Those who were most bound, most free to make:
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind, thou sinful creature,
I took baptism in thy nature
From filth of sin to make thee pure:
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind, man, how I took the field
Upon my back bearing my shield;
For pain nor death I would not yield;
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind, I was put on the rood
And for thy sake shed my heart's blood.
Behold my pain, behold my mood: [appearance, manner]
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Behold me, head, hand, foot, and side,
Behold my wounds five so wide,
Behold the pain that I abide:
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind, man, how fast I was bound
For thy sake to a pillar round,
Scourged till my blood fell to ground:
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind how I in form of bread
Have left my flesh and blood to wedde, [as a pledge]
To make thee quick, when thou art dead:
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Have mind, man, how I have thee wrought,
How with my blood I have thee bought,
And how to bliss I have thee brought;
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

O sinful man, behold and see,
What I have done and do for thee.
If thou wilt be in bliss with me,
O sinful man, give me thine heart.

Both for my death and pains smart,
That I suffered for thy desert, [for what you deserved]
I ask no more, man, but thine heart:
Revert, revert, revert, revert.

A selection of more Middle English poems about the Passion:

'Stond wel moder under rode'

'Woefully arrayed'

'Lo, lemman sweet'

'I sigh when I sing'

'O man unkind, print in thy mind'

'Suddenly afraid'

'O all women that ever were born'

'Unkind man, give heed to me'

Cold winds and Christ's Passion

'Nolo mortem peccatoris'

BL Harley 1892, f. 1v

Hec sunt verba Saluatoris:
'Nolo mortem peccatoris.'

Haue mynde for the how I was borne,
How with scourges my flesshe was torne,
And how I was crowned with thorne;
Nolo mortem peccatoris.

Haue myende also how lowe I light
Into a mayde so pure and bright,
Taking mercy, leving my myght;
Nolo mortem peccatoris.

Thinke how mekely I toke the felde,
Vpon my bak bering my shelde;
For payne ne dethe I wolde not yelde;
Nolo mortem peccatoris.

Lyft vp thy hert now, man, and see
What I haue done and doo for the;
Yf thou be lost, blame thou not me;
Nolo mortem peccatoris.

This text, like 'O man, whiche art the erthe take froo', comes from the fifteenth-century manuscript of poems collected by the Canterbury Franciscan James Ryman. In Ryman's collection, this poem is followed by another which has an English version of the same refrain: 'I do not desire the death of a sinner'.

Thus seith Jhesus of Nazareth:
'Of a synner I wille noo deth.'

Yf thou thy lyfe in synne haue ledde,
Amende the now; be not adredde,
For God his grace for the hath spredde;
Of a synner he wille no deth.

Yf thou haue done as mekill ylle
As hert may thinke and dede fulfille,
Yf thou axe grace, thou shalt not spille;
Of a synner he wille no deth.

Mary Magdalene did grete offence,
And yet with hir Crist did dispence
And gave her grace and indulgence;
Of a synner he wille no deth.

She asked grace with hert contrite
And foryeuenes of hir delicte,
And he forgave here anone right;
Of a synner he wille no deth.

Man, yf thou wilte thy synne forsake
And vnto Crist amendes make,
Thy soule to blis then wil he take;
Of a synner he wille no deth.

The refrain 'Nolo mortem peccatoris' may be familiar from a motet attributed to Thomas Morley, the text of which is also an English poem with a Latin refrain spoken in the voice of Christ; information on that text and its relationship to these poems can be found here. It was a popular refrain, appearing also in this poem by John Audelay and this in St John's College, Cambridge, MS S.54.



Perhaps easier to read:

Hec sunt verba Saluatoris:
'Nolo mortem peccatoris.'

Have mind for thee how I was born,
How with scourges my flesh was torn,
And how I was crowned with thorn;
Nolo mortem peccatoris.

Have mind also how low I light [alighted]
Into a maid so pure and bright,
Taking mercy, leaving my might;
Nolo mortem peccatoris.

Think how meekly I took the field,
Upon my back bearing my shield;
For pain nor death I would not yield;
Nolo mortem peccatoris.

Lift up thy heart now, man, and see
What I have done and do for thee;
If thou be lost, blame thou not me;
Nolo mortem peccatoris.

The wording of this last verse is a little unfortunate to a modern ear, but the sense isn't so much 'if you're damned, don't blame me' as 'if you're damned, don't say it's by my desire'! And the other:

Thus saith Jesus of Nazareth:
'Of a sinner I desire no death.'

If thou thy life in sin have led,
Amend thee now, be not adread, [afraid]
For God his grace for thee hath spread;
Of a sinner he desires no death.

If thou have done as much of ill
As heart may think and deed fulfill,
If thou ask grace, thou shalt not spill; [be destroyed]
Of a sinner he desires no death.

Mary Magdalene did great offence,
And yet Christ did her dispence [pardon]
And gave her grace and indulgence;
Of a sinner he desires no death.

She asked grace with heart contrite
And forgiveness of her delicte, [sin]
And he forgave her anon right;
Of a sinner he desires no death.

Man, if thou wilt thy sin forsake
And unto Christ amends make,
Thy soul to bliss then will he take;
Of a sinner he desires no death.

Compare:

'Lo, lemman sweet'

'Come home again, mine own sweetheart'

'O man unkyende, pryente in thi myende'

'Unkynde man, gif kepe til me'

BL Harley 1892, f. 115

'Woefully arrayed'

BL Arundel 302 (f. 47v)

Wofully araide,
My blode, man,
For thee ran,
It may not be naide;
My body blo and wanne,
Wofully araide.

Beholde me, I pray thee, with all thine whole reson,
And be not hard-herted for this encheson,
That I for thy saule sake was slaine in good seson,
Begylde and betraide by Judas fals treson;
Unkyndly entretid,
With sharpe corde sore fretid,
The Jewis me thretid,
They mowid, they grynned, they scornyd me,
Condempnyd to deth, as thou maist se,
Wofully araide.

Thus nakyd am I nailid, O man, for thy sake!
I love thee, then love me; why slepist thou? awake!
Remembir my tendir hart rote for thee brake,
With panys my vaynys constreyned to crake;
Thus toggid to and fro,
Thus wrappid all in woo,
Whereas neuer man was so,
Entretid thus in most cruell wyse,
Was like a lombe offerd in sacrifice,
Wofully araide.

Of sharpe thorne I haue worne a crowne on my hede,
So paynyd, so straynyd, so rufull, so red;
Thus bobbid, thus robbid, thus for thy loue ded,
Onfaynyd, not deynyd my blod for to shed;
My fete and handes sore
The sturdy nailis bore;
What might I suffir more
Than I haue don, O man, for thee?
Cum when thou list, wellcum to me,
Wofully araide.

Off record thy good Lord y haue beyn and schal bee;
Y am thyn, thou artt myne, my brother y call thee;
Thee love I enterly; see whatt ys befall me!
Sore bettyng, sore thretyng, too make thee, man, all free;
Why art thou unkynde?
Why hast nott mee yn mynde?
Cum yett, and thou schalt fynde
Myne endlys mercy and race;
See how a spere my hert dyd race,
Wofully araide.

Deyr brother, noo other thyng y off thee desyre
But gyve me thyne hert fre to rewarde myn hyre;
Y wrought thee, I bowght thee frome eternal fyre;
Y pray thee aray thee tooward my hyght empyre,
Above the oryent,
Wherof y am regent,
Lord God omnypotent,
Wyth me too reyn yn endlys welthe;
Remember, man, thy sawlys helthe.

Wofully araide,
My blode, man,
For thee ran,
It may not be naide;
My body blo and wanne,
Wofully araide.

This is a poem from the end of the fifteenth or beginning of the sixteenth century; it survives in a number of manuscripts (listed here) and is attributed to John Skelton. In one manuscript it is accompanied by music by William Cornysh:



The poem derives much of its power (more when read than when sung) from its urgent, insistent rhythm and patterned rhyme scheme, which bears a close relationship to that of another Passion poem, 'Suddenly afraid'. I've tried to preserve it here:

Woefully arrayed,
My blood, man,
For thee ran,
It may not be naide; [denied]
My body pale and wan,
Woefully arrayed.

Behold me, I pray thee, with all thy whole reason,
And be not hard-hearted for this encheson, [cause]
That I for thy soul's sake was slain in good season,
Beguiled and betrayed by Judas' false treason;
Unkindly treated,
With sharp cords sore fretid, [stung]
The Jews me thretid, [threatened]
They mocked, they grinned, they scorned me,
Condemned to death, as thou mayst see,
Woefully arrayed.

Thus naked am I nailed, O man, for thy sake!
I love thee, then love me; why sleepst thou? awake!
Remember my tender heart-root for thee brake,
With pains my veins constrained to crake;
Thus tugged to and fro,
Thus wrapped all in woe,
As never man was so,
Treated thus in most cruel wise,
Was like a lamb offered in sacrifice,
Woefully arrayed.

Of sharp thorn I have worn a crown on my head,
So pained, so strained, so rueful, so red;
Thus bobbed, thus robbed, thus for thy love dead,
Unfeigned, not denying my blod for to shed;
My feet and hands sore
The sturdy nails bore;
What might I suffer more
Than I have done, O man, for thee?
Come when thou wilt, welcome to me,
Woefully arrayed.

Of record thy good Lord I have been and shall be;
I am thine, thou art mine, my brother I call thee;
Thee love I entirely; see what is befall me!
Sore beating, sore threating, to make thee, man, all free;
Why art thou unkind?
Why hast not me in mind?
Come yet, and thou shalt find
My endless mercy and grace;
See how a spear my heart did race, [pierce]
Woefully arrayed.

Dear brother, no other thing I of thee desire
But give me thine heart free to reward my hire; [labour]
I wrought thee, I bought thee from eternal fire;
I pray thee, array thee toward my high empire,
Above the orient,
Whereof I am regent,
Lord God omnipotent,
With me to reign in endless wealth;
Remember, man, thy soul's health.

Woefully arrayed,
My blood, man,
For thee ran,
It may not be naide;
My body pale and wan,
Woefully arrayed.

There is, as you might expect, a very large body of Middle English poetry about the Passion of Christ, varying widely in style and approach. Here are some examples I've posted in the past:

'Stond wel moder under rode'

'I sigh when I sing'

'O man unkind, print in thy mind'

'O all women that ever were born'

'Unkind man, give heed to me'

Cold winds and Christ's Passion

'O man unkind, print in thy mind'

Christ in glory, from BL Harley 2887

1. O man unkyende, pryente in thi myende
The perfecte love of Criste aboue,
And thou shalt fyende, that thou art blyende
Thy myende to move fro that myelde dove
Borne for thy love and thy behove,
And suffred payne and deth also
To bringe thee oute of endeles wo.

2. Beholde and se his woundes fyve
In his handes, his fete and hert
Flowing with bloode and water ryve,
That he suffred for thy desert.
Beholde his deth bitter and smert,
And in thy hert it shall the move
Aboue alle thinge hym for to love.

3. His loue to thee was so feruent,
That he came downe fro heven blisse
Into this wrecched vale present
And of a mayde man become is.
O synfull man, take hede of this:
See the mekenes of god aboue,
That he hath shewed for thy loue.

4. Pryente in thy myende the lowe descence
Of Criste, that is so high in trone,
To suffre dethe for thyne offence,
The whiche offence did neuir none,
But shed his bloode for thee alone
Forto make thee fre, that were bonde,
And bringe thee fro the fendes honde.

5. But loue for loue, nomore of thee
He askith not, that lorde so good,
That suffred deth vppon a tree
And for thy loue shedde his hert bloode
With so myelde chere and so myelde moode;
The whiche graunt vs by his grete grace
In blisse to se hym face to face.

This is a fifteenth-century poem from the collection of James Ryman, the Canterbury Franciscan.  I was first attracted to it by the internal rhyme in the first verse, but the whole thing is really lovely.  It reminded me of this slightly earlier poem, and not only because of the similar beginning, with the appeal to 'ungrateful man'; they also share an emphasis on a popular medieval devotional theme, the straightforward exchange of 'love for love'. See the evidence of Christ's love for you, the poem says, and all he asks in return is your love. Love matches love, chiming together like the poem's rhymes.

Here's a modernised version; bear in mind that 'print' (in pre-printing-press days!) means 'impress, stamp'.

1. O man unkind, print in thy mind
The perfect love of Christ above,
And thou shalt find that thou art blind
Thy mind to move from that mild dove,
Born for thy love and thy behove, [benefit, good]
Who suffered pain and death also
To bring thee out of endless woe.

2. Behold and see his wounds five
In his hands, his feet and heart
Flowing with blood and water ryve, [plentiful]
That he suffered for thy desert.
Behold his death bitter and smart,
And in thy heart it shall thee move
Above all things him for to love.

3. His love to thee was so fervent,
That he came down from heavenly bliss
Into this wretched vale present
And of a maid man become is.
O sinful man, take heed of this:
See the meekness of God above,
That he hath showed for thy love.

4. Print in thy mind the humble descent
Of Christ, who is so high on throne,
To suffer death for thine offence,
He who offence did never none,
But shed his blood for thee alone
To make thee free, who had been bound,
And save thee from the fiend's hands.

5. Except love for love, no more of thee
He asketh not, that lord so good,
Who suffered death upon a tree
And for thy love shed his heart's blood
With so mild chere and so mild mood; [so kindly and so mercifully]
May he grant us, by his great grace,
In bliss to see him face to face.

Lo, lemman sweet

Lo, lemman swete, now may þou se
þat I haue lost my lyf for þe.
What myght I do þe mare?
For-þi I pray þe speciali
þat þou forsake ill company
þat woundes me so sare;

And take myne armes pryuely
& do þam in þi tresory,
In what stede sa þou dwelles,
And, swete lemman, forget þow noght
þat I þi lufe sa dere haue boght,
And I aske þe noght elles.

Christ in majesty, displaying his wounds (BL Arundel 302 f.56)

Like the poem I posted yesterday, this is from the manuscript Cambridge University Dd. 5. 64, III.  Here Christ appeals to the soul as a knight to his lady, imploring her to forsake all others for his sake; he asks her to take his arms into her keeping, as if he were Lancelot and she the lily maid of Astolat tenderly guarding his shield in her chamber.  Here the 'arms' are the 'Arma Christi', the instruments of the Passion, a familiar motif in medieval art and literature.  The image of Christ as knight and lover goes as far back in literature as there have been knights and lovers: one particularly famous example is this passage from Ancrene Wisse, where Christ is imagined as a king who loves and woos a noble lady besieged by her foes in a far-off land.  My favourite example of all is the handsome king and lover (and mother) Christ of 'In a valley of restless mind', patiently enduring the disdain of his lady, chasing away her enemies, and preparing for her a comfortable chamber in his own body.

Lo, sweetheart dear, now may thou see
That I have lost my life for thee.
What might I do thee more?
And so I pray thee especially
That thou forsake ill company
That woundeth me so sore;

And take mine arms prively
And put them in thy treasury,
Wherever thou may dwell;
And, sweetheart dear, forget thou not
That I thy love so dear have bought,
And I ask thee for nothing else.

Arma Christi in BL Harley 211, f.135

Unkynde man, give heed to me

BL Sloane 2321, f.111v

Christ speaks from the cross:

Unkynde man, gif kepe til me
and loke what payne I suffer for þe.
Synful man, on þe I cry,
alanly for þi lufe I dy.
Behalde, þe blode fra me downe rennes,
noght for my gylt, bot for þi synnes.
My hende, my fete, with nayles er fest,
syns & vayns al to-brest.
þe blode owt of my hert-rote,
loke, it falles downe to my fote.
Of al þe payne þat I suffer sare,
with-in my hert it greues me mare
þe vnkyndenes þat I fynd in þe,
þat for þi lufe þus hynged on tre.
Alas, why lufes þou me noght:
and I þi lufe sa dere hase boght?
Bot þou me lufe, þou dose me wrang,
sen I haue loued þe lang.
Twa & thyrty yere & mare
I was for þe in trauel sare,
With hungyr, thirst, hete & calde;
For þi lufe bath boght & salde,
Pyned, nayled & done on tre:
All, man, for þe lufe of þe.
Lufe þou me, als þe wele aw,
And fra syn þou þe draw.
I gyf þe my body with woundes sare,
And þare-to sall I gyf þe mare:
Ouer all þis I-wysse,
In erth mi grace, in heuen my blysse.

Christ crucified on a lily, St Michael at the Northgate, Oxford

This poem is from the manuscript Cambridge University Library Dd. 5. 64. III, which contains a variety of religious and devotional lyrics, including a number by Richard Rolle and his imitators. This one is anonymous, but it's strikingly good; the rhyming couplets are simple, but skilful. Dignified restraint is not often a feature of medieval poetry about the Passion, but this was a poet who knew where to stop.

A (slightly) modernised version follows. I've chosen not to translate the very first word, because unkind has a range of meanings in Middle English which all matter here; the primary sense is not 'unkind' but 'unnatural', as in (from the MED) 'lacking natural affection for or loyalty to one's offspring or kin, indifferent to ties of blood; also, hostile or violent in violation of a blood relationship' or 'ungrateful, unappreciative', 'lacking natural or proper reverence or love for God', 'stubborn, obstinate, intransigent, unwilling to acknowledge God'. That's the kind of idea here.

Unkynde man, give heed to me
And look what pain I suffer for thee.
Sinful man, on thee I cry:
All only for thy love I die.
Behold, the blood from me down runs,
Not for my guilt, but for thy sins.
My hands, my feet, with nails made fast,
Sinews and veins all burst apart.
The blood out of my heart-root -
Look, it falls down to my foot.
Of all the pain that I suffer sore,
Within my heart it grieves me more
The unkindness that I find in thee,
Who for thy love thus hung on the tree.
Alas, why lovest thou me not:
And I thy love so dear have bought?
Unless thou me love, thou dost me wrong,
Since I have loved thee so long.
Two and thirty years and more
I was for thee in travail sore,
With hunger, thirst, heat and cold;
For thy love both bought and sold,
Tormented, nailed and put upon the tree:
All, man, for the love of thee.
Love thou me, as thee well ought,
And from sin thou thee withdraw.
I give thee my body with wounds sore,
And with it shall I give thee more,
Truly, over all of this:
In earth my grace, in heaven my bliss.

 A monk adores Christ, from BL Stowe 12 f. 297v

The Yarnton Reredos

Yarnton is a village near Oxford, which in the eighteenth century had the good fortune to have an antiquarian benefactor: William Fletcher, Mayor of Oxford, who collected a large amount of medieval religious art from churches across Europe and presented it to the church at Yarnton.  The little church is a museum of assorted medieval fragments, mostly stained glass in varying states of completeness, but also a series of 15th-century alabaster panels which Fletcher obtained after they were found during excavations at St Edmund Hall, Oxford.  There were six panels, but only four are now at Yarnton - one is in the British Museum, another at the V&A.  (The British Museum one shows St Catherine of Alexandria, visible here; the V&A may be this or this one, I'm not quite sure).

The four remaining panels have been set under the east window, behind the altar, which makes them difficult both to see and to photograph, but I did my best - they're worth the effort!  Lacking paint and gilding, they don't have the breathtaking quality of the extraordinary alabaster reredos at Haddon Hall, but you can see the ghost of what it might once have been.  English alabaster of this date is just glorious, and in these Passion scenes, deeply moving too.

It's also worth linking here to my (sadly not very good) pictures of a painted reredos in Norwich Cathedral, which shows similar scenes.

The first panel is an Epiphany scene - unseasonal, but I can't resist posting it anyway:

The animals are delightful:

The Virgin stately and, apparently, beturbaned:

One king has politely removed his crown, and holds it on his knee:

The other kings hover in the background:

And St Joseph rests on his staff (compare these manuscript images I posted the other day):

Now to something more appropriate for Holy Week.  The scene of the arrest of Christ is perhaps the best of them all; it's like a ghost of a Giotto fresco:

The interaction between the various heads and arms and weapons is so dramatic, and the grasping hands (which are tiny - each less than a centimetre high) particularly exquisite:

In the same scene at Haddon Hall, Christ is looking away and out of the picture, but here he and Judas are eye-to-eye:

In the lower corner is the high priest's servant, St Peter's sword at his ear:

Just for comparison, a similar scene from BL Egerton 1151, f. 95v, a late 13th-century English manuscript:

The next Yarnton panel depicts Christ carrying the cross:

His ribs and fingers are carefully articulated:

Note the woman holding up a cloth for Christ, and behind him, women clutching their hands in grief:

'A large number of people followed him, including women who mourned and wailed for him. Jesus turned and said to them, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children...'

On the right, men are holding nails, a hammer and a whip (and again, compare Haddon Hall):

The last scene shows Mary cradling the body of Christ:

 

The pieta was a fairly new subject in art at this date, and here it dovetails beautifully with the Epiphany scene in the first panel, where Mary proudly holds her son on her lap. It's the visual equivalent of the near-contemporary poem which begins:

Of alle women that ever were borne
That berys childur, abyde and se
How my son liggus me beforne
Upon my kne, takyn fro tre.
Your childur ye dawnse upon your kne
With laghyng, kyssyng, and mery chere:
Behold my childe, beholde now me,
For now liggus ded my dere son, dere!