Three Christmas Readings

'It came to pass in those days...' (BL Royal 1 A XIV, f.86)

A little while ago I recorded readings of several passages from an Old English translation of the Gospels, and I thought today I might post the three short extracts which relate to Christmas. This translation dates from the end of the tenth century, the version known as the West Saxon Gospels. It's always a rewarding experience to read familiar texts in an unfamiliar language, so I hope you find these interesting - though the recordings aren't perfect, so please be forgiving of any mistakes!

First, the opening of the Gospel of John:

On frymðe wæs Word, and þæt Word wæs mid Gode, and God wæs þæt Word. Þæt wæs on fruman mid Gode. Ealle þing wæron geworhte ðurh hyne; and nan þing næs geworht butan him. Þæt wæs lif þe on him geworht wæs; and þæt lif wæs manna leoht. And þæt leoht lyht on ðystrum; and þystro þæt ne genamon.

Mann wæs fram Gode asend, þæs nama wæs Iohannes. Ðes com to gewitnesse, þæt he gewitnesse cyðde be ðam leohte, þæt ealle menn þurh hyne gelyfdon. Næs he leoht, ac þæt he gewitnesse forð bære be þam leohte. Soð leoht wæs þæt onlyht ælcne cumendne man on þisne middaneard. He wæs on middanearde, and middaneard wæs geworht þurh hine, and middaneard hine ne gecneow. To his agenum he com, and hig hyne ne underfengon. Soðlice swa hwylce swa hyne underfengon, he sealde him anweald þæt hi wæron Godes bearn, þam ðe gelyfað on his naman: ða ne synt acennede of blodum, ne of flæsces willan, ne of weres willan, ac hig synt of Gode acennede. And þæt Word wæs flæsc geworden, and eardode on us, and we gesawon hys wuldor, swylce acennedes wuldor of Fæder, þæt wæs ful mid gyfe and soðfæstnysse.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and God was that Word. It was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and nothing was made without him. That was life, which was created through him; and that life was the light of men. And the light shone in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness, to bear witness to the light, that all men through him might believe. He was not the light, but he bore witness to the light. That was the true light, which lightens every man who comes into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made by him, and the world did not know him. To his own he came, and they did not receive him. Truly, as many as received him, to them he gave power to become the sons of God, to those who believe in his name; who were born, not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but were born of God. And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth.

And the birth of Christ in Luke 2:1-7:

Soþlice on þam dagum wæs geworden gebod fram þam casere Augusto þæt eall ymbehwyrft wære tomearcod. Þeos tomearcodnes wæs æryst geworden fram þam deman Syrige Cirino. And ealle hig eodon, and syndrie ferdon on hyra ceastre. Þa ferde Iosep fram Galilea of þære ceastre Nazareþ: on Iudeisce ceastre Dauides seo is genemned Beþleem (forþam þe he wæs of Dauides huse and hirede), þæt he ferde mid Marian þe him beweddod wæs, and wæs geeacnod. Soðlice wæs geworden, þa hi þar wæron, hire dagas wæron gefyllede þæt heo cende, and heo cende hyre frumcennedan sunu, and hine mid cildclaþum bewand, and hine on binne alede, forþam þe hig næfdon rum on cumena huse.

Truly it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. This tax was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria. And all went out, and each travelled to his own city. Then Joseph went from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be taxed with Mary, who was betrothed to him and was pregnant. Truly it happened that while they were there, her days were fulfilled that she should give birth. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

The Visit of the Shepherds (Luke 2: 8-20):

And hyrdas wæron on þam ylcan rice waciende: and nihtwæccan healdende ofer heora heorda. Þa stod drihtnes engel wiþ hig, and Godes beorhtnes him ymbelscean: and hi him mycelum ege adredon. And se engel him to cwæð: Nelle ge eow adrædan. Soþlice nu ic eow bodie mycelne gefean, se bið eallum folce. Forþam todæg eow ys hælend acenned, se is drihten Crist on Dauides ceastre. And þis tacen eow byð: Ge gemetað an cild hreglum bewunden, and on binne aled. And þa wæs færinga geworden mid þam engle mycelnes heofonlices werydes, God heriendra, and þus cweþendra: Gode sy wuldor on heahnesse and on eorðan sybb mannum godes willan. And hit wæs geworden þa ða englas to heofene ferdon, þa hyrdas him betwynan spræcon and cwædon: Utun faran to beþleem, and geseon þæt word þe geworden is þæt drihten us ætywde. And hig efstende comon, and gemetton Marian and Iosep and þæt cild on binne aled. Þa hi þæt gesawon þa oncneowon hig be þam worde þe him gesæd wæs be þam cilde. And ealle þa ðe gehyrdon wundredon be þam þe him þa hyrdas sædon. Maria geheold ealle þas word on hyre heortan smeagende. Þa gewendon ham þa hyrdas, God wuldriende and heriende on eallum þam ðe hi gehyrdon and gesawon, swa to him gecweden wæs.

And there were shepherds in the same country, awake, and keeping night-watch over their flocks. Then the angel of the Lord stood before them, and the brightness of God shone around them: and they were greatly afraid. And the angel said to them, Do not be afraid. Truly, I now bring you tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For to you is born this day a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, in the city of David. And this shall be a sign to you: you shall find a child wrapped in swaddling clothes, and laid in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and thus saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men of good will. And it came to pass, when the angels had gone away into heaven, the shepherds spoke to one another and said, Let us go to Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord has made known to us. And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the child lying in a manger. And when they had seen that, they understood the words which had been spoken to them about this child. And all those who heard it wondered at the things which the shepherds told them. Mary kept all these words in her heart, thinking about them. Then the shepherds returned home, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was said to them.

The Anglo-Saxon O Antiphons: O Virgo Virginum, Eala wifa wynn

In medieval English usage this was the eighth and last of the O Antiphons, 'O Virgo virginum' (lines 71-103 of the Old English Advent lyrics).

O Virgo virginum, quomodo fiet istud?
Quia nec primam similem visa es nec habere sequentem.
Filiae Jerusalem, quid me admiramini?
Divinum est mysterium hoc quod cernitis.

O Virgin of virgins, how shall this be?
For before you there was none like you, nor shall there be after.
Daughters of Jerusalem, why do you marvel at me?
What you behold is a divine mystery.

Eala wifa wynn geond wuldres þrym,
fæmne freolicast ofer ealne foldan sceat
þæs þe æfre sundbuend secgan hyrdon,
arece us þæt geryne þæt þe of roderum cwom,
hu þu eacnunge æfre onfenge
bearnes þurh gebyrde, ond þone gebedscipe
æfter monwisan mod ne cuðes.
Ne we soðlice swylc ne gefrugnan
in ærdagum æfre gelimpan,
þæt ðu in sundurgiefe swylce befenge,
ne we þære wyrde wenan þurfon
toweard in tide. Huru treow in þe
weorðlicu wunade, nu þu wuldres þrym
bosme gebære, ond no gebrosnad wearð
mægðhad se micla. Swa eal manna bearn
sorgum sawað, swa eft ripað,
cennað to cwealme. Cwæð sio eadge mæg
symle sigores full, sancta Maria:
"Hwæt is þeos wundrung þe ge wafiað,
ond geomrende gehþum mænað,
sunu Solimæ somod his dohtor?
Fricgað þurh fyrwet hu ic fæmnan had,
mund minne geheold, ond eac modor gewearð
mære meotudes suna. Forþan þæt monnum nis
cuð geryne, ac Crist onwrah
in Dauides dyrre mægan
þæt is Euan scyld eal forpynded,
wærgða aworpen, ond gewuldrad is
se heanra had. Hyht is onfangen
þæt nu bletsung mot bæm gemæne,
werum ond wifum, a to worulde forð
in þam uplican engla dreame
mid soðfæder symle wunian."

O joy of women, beyond the glory of heaven,
most noble virgin through all the corners of the earth
of whom sea-dwellers ever heard tell,
explain to us the mystery which came to you from the skies,
how you ever conceived a pregnancy,
the bearing of a baby, when you never knew
bed-companionship according to the ways of men.
Truly, we have not heard of such a thing
ever occurring in former days,
as that you, with special grace, conceived in this way,
nor should we ever expect that event
to occur again in time. Indeed, Truth in you
gloriously dwelt; now you the Glory of heaven
bore in your womb, and your great virginity
was not breached. Just as all the sons of men
sow in sorrow, so do they reap,
bearing children in pain. The blessed maid spoke,
forever full of triumph, holy Mary:
“What is this wondering which amazes you,
son and daughter of Salem, so that, mourning,
you bemoan your grief?
Curiously you ask how I kept my virginity,
held my wholeness, and also became the mother
of the glorious Ruler’s Son. But that mystery is not
made known to men, though Christ revealed
in David’s dear daughter
that the sin of Eve is entirely put aside,
the curse averted, and the humbler sex
is glorified. Hope is conceived,
so that blessing may now with both alike,
with men and women, ever throughout eternity
in the heavenly joy of the angels
with the Father of truth, always dwell.”

Like the antiphon, this poem is imagined as a dialogue between Mary and the women of Jerusalem, but although Mary addresses 'the son and daughter of Salem' the questioner who addresses her is all of 'us': arece us þæt geryne þæt þe of roderum cwom, 'explain to us the mystery which came to you from the skies'. We are 'sea-dwellers', a kenning for mankind which seems to refer to the idea of a sea-voyage as a metaphor for human life, an exile's journey through stormy seas to the firm land of the heavenly home - as in 'The Seafarer', or the end of Christ II:

Nu is þon gelicost swa we on laguflode
ofer cald wæter ceolum liðan
geond sidne sæ, sundhengestum,
flodwudu fergen. Is þæt frecne stream
yða ofermæta þe we her on lacað
geond þas wacan woruld, windge holmas
ofer deop gelad. Wæs se drohtað strong
ærþon we to londe geliden hæfdon
ofer hreone hrycg. þa us help bicwom,
þæt us to hælo hyþe gelædde,
godes gæstsunu, ond us giefe sealde
þæt we oncnawan magun ofer ceoles bord
hwær we sælan sceolon sundhengestas,
ealde yðmearas, ancrum fæste.

Now it is very much like this: as if we were sailing
in ships across cold water, over the sea-waves,
beyond the wide ocean in water-steeds
traversing the floods. The waters are perilous,
the waves immeasurable, amid which we journey here
through this frail world, the stormy oceans,
across the paths of the deep. Dangerous was the life
before we came to land
across the rough waves. Help came to us
that we might be led to a haven of healing,
God's Spirit-Son, and gave us grace
that we might find, by the ship's side,
where we could moor our water-steeds,
our ancient wave-horses securely anchored.

And Mary, for such mariners, is the star of the sea (Old English sæsteorra):

Sæsteorra heo is gecweden, forðan þe se steorra on niht gecyþeð scypliðendum mannum hwyder bið east and west, hwyder suð and norð. Swa þonne wearð þurh ða halgan fæmnan Sancta Marian gecyþed se rihte siðfæt to ðam ecan life þam ðe lange ær sæton on þeostrum and on deaþes scuan and on þam unstillum yðum þære sæ þises middaneardes.

'Sea-star she is called, because a star in the night shows to seafaring men where is east and west, where south and north. And just in this way through the holy maiden St Mary the right path to eternal life was shown to those who long had sat in darkness and in the shadow of death and among the troubled waves of the sea of this world.'

The first part of the poem marvels at the uniqueness of Mary, her difference from other women, but when Mary herself speaks in the second part she emphasises her kinship with all women: 'Christ revealed in David’s dear daughter that the sin of Eve is entirely put aside, the curse averted, and the humbler sex is glorified...' 'Hope is conceived' has just the same double meaning in Old English as in Modern English; the verb is onfon, which means 'to receive' but also 'to conceive a child'. There are a number of places in this poem where Christ is referred to by abstract nouns: he is the 'hope' which is conceived, the 'truth' and the 'glory of heaven' which dwelt in Mary, and the 'blessing' which will dwell with all men and women (werum ond wifum), for ever throughout eternity, in þam uplican engla dreame, 'on high in the joy of the angels'.

The images in this post are of an extraordinary Anglo-Saxon carving, the Wirksworth stone. This coffin lid, found in Wirksworth in Derbyshire and probably made in the seventh century, depicts the life of Christ, including the Annunciation (top) and Mary holding the Christ-child.

'The Time is All Run'

Virgin and Child (c. 1200, BL Royal 2 A XXII, f. 13v)

Today I thought I would revisit a beautiful Advent carol which has been running around my head recently. It has an unusual subject: Mary looking forward with joyful expectation, during her pregnancy, to the birth of her child. She imagines herself singing lullabies to the baby and playing with him, and then, later, hearing him teach the Gospel. She pictures a happy future for herself and her holy baby, but she can only see so far; she does not foresee his suffering, his death, or his resurrection. I don't know of any other carols on this theme, at least not spoken in the voice of the Virgin herself; more common are carols where the infant Christ tells his mother of the future that will befall him, to her surprise and distress (such as 'This endris night' or 'Sing now, mother'). Those are poignant and rather unearthly, but this is a homely, domestic, cheerful kind of scenario - really just a lovely subject all round.

There is a note in the fifteenth-century manuscript (Bodleian Eng. poet. e.1) which suggests this carol was written to fit the tune of a secular song called "Now must I sing". That song has not survived, but might possibly have been about a forsaken woman lamenting that she is pregnant, in which case this carol is a 'translation' of the theme to a joyful, religious context. For the opening, where the narrator wanders alone in the woods and overhears a woman speaking, compare this song of an earlier date.

(BL Egerton 1151, f. 7)

Nowel, nowel, nowel,
Syng we with myrth:
Cryst is come wel
With us to dwell
By hys most noble byrth.

Under a tre
In sportyng me
Alone by a wod syd
I hard a mayd
That swetly sayd,
"I am with chyld this tyd.

Gracyusly
Conceyvyd have I
The Son of God so swete;
Hys gracyous wyll
I put me tyll
As moder hym to kepe.

Both nyght and day
I wyl hym pray
And her hys lawes taught,
And every dell
Hys trewe gospell
In hys apostles fraught.

Thys goostly case
Dooth me embrace
Withowt dyspyte or moke:
With my derlyng
'Lullay' to syng
And lovely hym to roke.

Withowt dystresse
In grete lyghtnesse
I am both nyght and day;
This hevenly fod
In hys chyldhod
Schal dayly with me play.

Soone must I syng
With rejoycyng
For the tym is all ronne
That I schal chyld
All undefyld
The kyng of hevens sonne."

Richard Greene, ed. A Selection of English Carols (Oxford: Clarendon, 1962), pp. 116-17.

(BL Harley 2915, f. 138v)

A modernised version:

Nowell, Nowell, Nowell!
Sing we with mirth,
Christ is come well
With us to dwell,
By His most noble birth.

Under a tree,
In sporting me
Alone by a wood-side,
I heard a maid
Who sweetly said,
"I am with child this tide.

Graciously
Conceived have I
The Son of God so sweet;
His gracious will
I put me til, [into]
As mother him to keep.

Both night and day,
I will him pray,
And hear his laws be taught,
And every dell
His true gospel
In His apostles fraught. [every part of his true Gospel entrusted to his disciples]

This ghostly case [holy act]
Doth me embrace,
Without despite or mock,
With my darling,
Lullay to sing,
And lovingly him to rock.

Without distress,
In great lightness,
I am both night and day;
This heavenly fode, [infant]
In his childhood,
Shall daily with me play.

Soon must I sing,
With rejoicing,
For the time is all run,
That I shall child,
All undefiled,
The King of heaven's Son."

Nowell, Nowell, Nowell!
Sing we with mirth,
Christ is come well,
With us to dwell,
By His most noble birth.

Virgin and Child (Fordwich, Kent)

The Anglo-Saxon O Antiphons: O Emmanuel, God mid us

Christ in majesty, BL Harley 76, f. 6

This is the Old English version of 'O Emmanuel', the last of the O Antiphons, which makes up lines 130-163 of the Anglo-Saxon Advent Lyrics. The Latin antiphon is:

O Emmanuel, Rex et legifer noster,
exspectatio Gentium, et Salvator earum:
veni ad salvandum nos, Domine, Deus noster.

O Emmanuel, our king and law-giver,
the hope of the nations and their saviour,
come to save us, O Lord our God.

Eala gæsta god, hu þu gleawlice
mid noman ryhte nemned wære
Emmanuhel, swa hit engel gecwæð
ærest on Ebresc. þæt is eft gereht,
rume bi gerynum: "Nu is rodera weard,
God sylfa, mid us." Swa þæt gomele gefyrn
ealra cyninga cyning ond þone clænan eac
sacerd soðlice sægdon toweard,
swa se mæra iu, Melchisedech,
gleaw in gæste godþrym onwrah
eces alwaldan. Se wæs æ bringend,
lara lædend, þam longe his
hyhtan hidercyme, swa him gehaten wæs,
þætte sunu meotudes sylfa wolde
gefælsian foldan mægðe,
swylce grundas eac gæstes mægne
siþe gesecan. Nu hie softe þæs
bidon in bendum hwonne bearn godes
cwome to cearigum. Forþon cwædon swa,
suslum geslæhte: "Nu þu sylfa cum,
heofones heahcyning. Bring us hælolif,
werigum witeþeowum, wope forcymenum,
bitrum brynetearum. Is seo bot gelong
eal æt þe anum ...... oferþearfum.
Hæftas hygegeomre hider ...es;
ne læt þe behindan, þonne þu heonan cyrre,
mænigo þus micle, ac þu miltse on us
gecyð cynelice, Crist nergende,
wuldres æþeling, ne læt awyrgde ofer us
onwald agan. Læf us ecne gefean
wuldres þines, þæt þec weorðien,
weoroda wuldorcyning, þa þu geworhtes ær
hondum þinum. þu in heannissum
wunast wideferh mid waldend fæder."


O God of spirits, how wisely you were
with a rightful name named
Emmanuel, as the angel said
first in Hebrew. That is, interpreted
freely according to its hidden meaning: “Now the heavens' Guardian,
God himself, is with us.” So the men of ancient times
the King of all Kings and the pure
Priest also truly prophesied;
so the glorious Melchisedech of old,
wise in spirit, unveiled the divine majesty
of the eternal All-wielder. He was the bringer of law,
the leader-in of learning, to those who long
had hoped for his coming here, as it had been promised to them,
that the Son of the Lord himself would
purify the people of earth,
and by the strength of his spirit also would journey
to seek the depths. Now they patiently
waited in fetters for when the Son of God
would descend to the desolate. And so they spoke,
weakened by torments: “Come now yourself,
high King of heaven! Bring healing life to us,
weary slaves in prison, overcoming by weeping,
bitter briny tears. The cure for our great need
depends on you, entirely and alone.
Seek out the sorrowful captives here,
do not leave behind so great a multitude
at your return to the heavens, but show mercy to us
in kingly manner, Saviour Christ,
Prince of Glory; do not let the accursed ones
possess power over us! Leave to us the eternal joy
of your glory, so that they may honour you,
glorious King of hosts, whom once you
fashioned with your hands. You dwell on high
for ever with the Ruler and Father.”


This is a substantial elaboration on the antiphon, but it grows from an awareness of that text's scriptural sources. When the title 'Emmanuel' appears in the Bible it comes accompanied by its interpretation, 'God with us', as for instance in St Joseph's dream in Matthew 1, which quotes Isaiah: "Now all this was done, that it might be fulfilled which was spoken of the Lord by the prophet, saying, Behold, a virgin shall be with child, and shall bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us." So an interpretative impulse goes along with this word, and the Old English poet, noting that the name is Hebrew (Ebresc), accordingly turns it into English: God mid us.

This leads to the prophets who spoke of Emmanuel, and all those who lived before Christ's coming. The poem falls precisely, although unobtrusively, into two halves: the exact halfway point, the hinge of the whole poem, falls in the middle of the line bidon in bendum hwonne bearn godes, 'waited in fetters for when the Son of God...'  Just as to a medieval Christian time was sharply divided into 'before' and 'after' Christ's entry into human history (hence the A. D. system of dating, popularised in Anglo-Saxon England by Bede), so the poem is divided into the time of prophecies and the time of their fulfilment, bisected by the moment 'when the Son of God would descend to the desolate'.

In the second half of the poem the prophets are given a voice, speaking for all humanity, and imagined as fettered prisoners appealing to a king for clemency. The imagery and language is all of kingship and of law, building on the antiphon's 'rex et legifer', and the vocabulary is typical of Old English Christian poetry: rodera weard 'Guardian of the Heavens', cyninga cyning 'King of Kings', alwealda 'All-Ruler', heofones heahcyning 'heaven's High King'. Christ is the son and heir: sunu meotudes 'Son of the Ruler', bearn godes 'Son of God', and wuldres æþeling 'Prince of Glory'. 'Ætheling' is the ordinary Old English word for 'prince' (as applicable to the sons of King Æthelred as the Son of God); and so Christ is implored to show mercy cynelice, 'in kingly manner'.

Harley 76, f. 8v

The images in this post are from a lavish Gospel-book, made in the first half of the eleventh century, which belonged to the monastery of Bury St Edmunds.

The Anglo-Saxon O Antiphons: O Rex Gentium, Christ the Craftsman

Christ, angels and peoples (BL Harley 603, f. 60v)

This is the first of the antiphons in the Exeter Book (actually the very first poem in that precious manuscript), and the opening is lost. It comprises lines 1-17 of the Advent lyrics.

O Rex Gentium, et desideratus earum,
lapisque angularis, qui facis utraque unum:
veni, et salva hominem,
quem de limo formasti. 

O King of the nations, and their desire,
the cornerstone who makes both one:
Come and save the human race
which you fashioned from clay.

...cyninge.
ðu eart se weallstan þe ða wyrhtan iu
wiðwurpon to weorce. Wel þe geriseð
þæt þu heafod sie healle mærre,
ond gesomnige side weallas
fæste gefoge, flint unbræcne,
þæt geond eorðb...g eall eagna gesihþe
wundrien to worlde wuldres ealdor.
Gesweotula nu þurh searocræft þin sylfes weorc,
soðfæst, sigorbeorht, ond sona forlæt
weall wið wealle. Nu is þam weorce þearf
þæt se cræftga cume ond se cyning sylfa,
ond þonne gebete, nu gebrosnad is,
hus under hrofe. He þæt hra gescop,
leomo læmena; nu sceal liffrea
þone wergan heap wraþum ahreddan,
earme from egsan, swa he oft dyde.


...the king.
Thou art the corner-stone which the builders long ago
rejected from the building. It is well-fitting for thee
that thou become the headstone of the glorious hall,
and bring together the wide walls
with bonds fixed fast, stone unbroken,
so that throughout the cities of earth the sight of all eyes
may marvel forever at the Lord of glory.
Reveal now through skillful craft thine own work,
steadfast in truth, victory-bright, and all at once leave
wall standing against wall. Now is it needful for this work
that the Craftsman come, and the King himself,
and mend what is now in ruins,
the house beneath its roof. He created that body,
the limbs made of clay; now shall the Lord of life
save the weary multitude from its enemies,
the wretched ones from terror, as he has often done.

'Work' here can be interpreted as both 'deed' and 'building-work', and that double meaning is at the heart of a poem full of subtle wordplay. The first few lines pick up the antiphon's allusion to Psalm 118, 'the stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone', but from this point on the Anglo-Saxon poet develops the idea within the context of his own poetic tradition. It forms a remarkable counterpart to two of the best-known Old English poems, also contained in the Exeter Book, 'The Wanderer' and 'The Ruin': both describe the windswept ruins of a great city, walls standing battered by the elements, as a symbol of decay and destruction in the transient human world. This poem, rather beautifully, offers the opposite: Christ as the cornerstone of a firm-fixed wall, as the craftsman who will repair the ruin, and as the lord who will defend it from its enemies.

The hall is a central image of human society in Anglo-Saxon poetry; the classic statement of this idea is Bede's story of the sparrow, where the hall represents everything warm and good about human companionship and the world we know. But as the poem goes on it gradually becomes clear that the ruin to be repaired is not a hall, but the human body. The image of the body as a house is an ancient one, and here the body and the hall are merged into one; we are the 'building-work'. Christ is the heafod of this building - a word which means both 'head-stone' and 'head' in the literal and metaphorical senses. 'The house beneath its roof' is easily transferable to the body, when you remember that hrofe 'roof' could refer to the roof of the mouth or the ceiling of the sky; and also that in Old English feorhhus, 'spirit-house', is a kenning for the body. And hall and body both have 'limbs made of clay', in a lovely moment of ambiguity inspired by the antiphon, which says that man was formed de limo, 'of clay'. Latin limus is cognate with Old English lim, læmen - a building material, as in 'lime and mortar' - which also happens to sound like Old English leomu 'limbs'. So these are leomo læmena, 'limbs of lime', which both a body and a building might truly be said to have.

In the final lines we see Christ defending the hall he has built, like Beowulf keeping night-watch in Heorot while Grendel stalks the moors outside. The 'weary multitude' to be saved is a heap, which means a crowd, people, but also what modern 'heap' does: a pile, as of stones. When the Craftsman comes the human body, reduced to a pile of rubble, is to be built up again into a glorious and unassailable hall.

BL Harley 603, f. 50

The images in this post are from an illustrated psalter produced at Canterbury early in the eleventh century. I chose the illustrations of Psalms 118 ('the stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone') and 102 (angels rebuilding the city of Sion).

The Sonne

As a kind of follow-up to my post on 'O Oriens', and as appropriate for the Winter Solstice, this is George Herbert's 'The Sonne'. Metaphysical poets liked this particular felicity of the English language as much as their Anglo-Saxon forebears did.

Let forrain nations of their language boast,
What fine varietie each tongue affords:
I like our language, as our men and coast:
Who cannot dresse it well, want wit, not words.
How neatly doe we give one onely name
To parents issue and the sunnes bright starre!
A sonne is light and fruit; a fruitfull flame
Chasing the fathers dimnesse, carri’d farre
From the first man in th’ East, to fresh and new
Western discov’ries of posteritie.
So in one word our Lords humilitie
We turn upon him in a sense most true:
For what Christ once in humblenesse began,
We him in glorie call, The Sonne of Man.

The Anglo-Saxon O Antiphons: O Oriens, O Earendel

The sun in an Anglo-Saxon manuscript (BL Arundel 60, f.12v)

On 21 December, the date of the winter solstice, the Advent antiphon sung at Vespers is 'O Oriens'. It's an appeal addressed to Christ the Dayspring, the rising sun, to come and lighten the darkness of the midwinter world:

O Oriens, splendor lucis aeternae, et sol justitiae:
veni, et illumina sedentes in tenebris, et umbra mortis.

O Dayspring, splendour of light eternal and sun of righteousness:
come and enlighten those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

In the Anglo-Saxon poem known as the Advent Lyrics (or Christ I), a series of poetic meditations inspired by the O Antiphons, this is the corresponding section (for background on the Old English poems based on the O Antiphons, see this post):

Eala earendel, engla beorhtast,
ofer middangeard monnum sended,
ond soðfæsta sunnan leoma,
torht ofer tunglas, þu tida gehwane
of sylfum þe symle inlihtes.
Swa þu, god of gode gearo acenned,
sunu soþan fæder, swegles in wuldre
butan anginne æfre wære,
swa þec nu for þearfum þin agen geweorc
bideð þurh byldo, þæt þu þa beorhtan us
sunnan onsende, ond þe sylf cyme
þæt ðu inleohte þa þe longe ær,
þrosme beþeahte ond in þeostrum her,
sæton sinneahtes; synnum bifealdne
deorc deaþes sceadu dreogan sceoldan.
Nu we hyhtfulle hælo gelyfað
þurh þæt word godes weorodum brungen,
þe on frymðe wæs fæder ælmihtigum
efenece mid god, ond nu eft gewearð
flæsc firena leas, þæt seo fæmne gebær
geomrum to geoce. God wæs mid us
gesewen butan synnum; somod eardedon
mihtig meotudes bearn ond se monnes sunu
geþwære on þeode. We þæs þonc magon
secgan sigedryhtne symle bi gewyrhtum,
þæs þe he hine sylfne us sendan wolde.

O Earendel, brightest of angels,
sent to mankind over middle-earth,
and righteous radiance of the sun,
splendid above all stars, of your own self
you ever enlighten every age.
As you, God born of God long ago,
Son of the true Father, eternally existed
without beginning in the glory of heaven,
so your own creation cry with confidence
to you now for their needs, that you send
that bright sun to us, and come yourself
to lighten those who long have lived,
surrounded by shadows and darkness, here
in everlasting night; who, shrouded by sins,
have had to endure death's dark shadow.
Now, hope-filled, we look for healing,
brought to the world's people through the word of God,
who was in the beginning with the almighty Father
equally eternal with God, and now became
flesh, free of failings, born of the virgin,
a support to the sorrowful. God was with us,
seen without sin; together dwelt
the mighty Measurer's child and the son of man,
at peace among the people. We may ever address
our thanks to the Lord of victory for his deeds,
because he chose to send himself to us.

It's no coincidence that 'O Oriens' is sung on the evening of the winter solstice, as darkness falls on the longest night of the year - the time when winter is at its deepest, but the year's turning-point has come. In the antiphon and in the Old English poem, Christ is figured as the dawn and the returning sun, appearing in the time of greatest darkness, in the depth of the season the Anglo-Saxons called midwinter. In his De temporum ratione, Bede explains the traditional understanding of the relationship between the church year and the equinoxes and solstices:

very many of the Church’s teachers recount... that our Lord was conceived and suffered on the 8th kalends of April [25 March], at the spring equinox, and that he was born at the winter solstice on the 8th kalends of January [25 December]. And again, that the Lord’s blessed precursor and Baptist was conceived at the autumn equinox on the 8th kalends of October [24 September] and born at the summer solstice on the 8th kalends of July [24 June]. To this they add the explanation that it was fitting that the Creator of eternal light should be conceived and born along with the increase of temporal light, and that the herald of penance, who must decrease, should be engendered and born at a time when the light is diminishing.

Bede, The Reckoning of Time, trans. Faith Wallis (Liverpool, 2004), p. 87.

The medieval church attached profound importance to the solstices and equinoxes as signs of God's power over time and the created world. What Bede is explaining here is that early in the development of the Christian calendar, four important feasts were fixed to these four key points in the solar year, marking the births and conceptions of Christ and his forerunner John the Baptist. Christ and John were 'the children of one year', the Creator of light born in the darkness of midwinter and the herald who must diminish before him at the time when the year begins to wane.

It was the date of the winter solstice in the Roman calendar, 25 December, which determined the date of Christmas, nine months after the feast of Christ's conception (the feast of the Annunciation, on 25 March). By Bede's time in the eighth century, the solstice was dated a few days earlier than this, on 21 December, but Bede doesn't dispute the central point of the symbolism linking Christ's birth with the winter solstice. It would not have occurred to him to do so: to a medieval scientist, the structure of the year reflected deep essential truths about the structure of the universe, ordained by God. That included every detail of the calendar: the four seasons, the twelve months, the equinoxes, solstices, and more. (Two of the most popular, though unhistorical, opinions about the solstice often expressed today - that the church 'stole' the solstice from the pagans, and therefore has no right to celebrate it, or that celebrating the solstice is something only pagans would do, and therefore unchristian - were both foreign to medieval thinking.) The birth of Christ is celebrated in midwinter, when light is lowest, because he is the rising sun, oriens.

And so, as you might expect, the Old English version of 'O Oriens' (which you can hear read aloud here) glows with words relating to light: beorht 'bright'; leoma 'a ray of light'; torht 'bright'; inlihten 'to enlighten'. The opposite is þrosm and þeostre 'shadows' and 'darkness', sinneaht 'perpetual night', and deorc deaþes sceadu 'death's dark shadow'. Christ is the sun in two senses, of course: he is both soðfæsta sunnan leoma 'radiance of the true sun' and sunu soþan fæder 'son of the true Father'.

The poem gives us words for 'sun' (sunne) and 'stars' (tunglas) but the opening address seems to be to the name of a star: Earendel. This is a rare and very interesting word. Its cognates in other Germanic languages suggest that it was originally a name, possibly a personification in pre-Christian mythology: a story in the Old Norse Prose Edda tells of a star formed from the frostbitten toe of someone called Aurvandil, thrown up into the heavens by the god Thor. Whether the Anglo-Saxons connected the word with toes or not, they might first have known Earendel as a star-name, perhaps a name for the morning star. In other surviving Old English texts the word is used for the light of dawn, which is clearly its significance in the Advent Lyrics too. In one sermon, it's also used as a name for John the Baptist: he's called 'the new Earendel', the morning star whose rising is a sign that the dawn of the true Sun is near.

The sun's rays (BL Harley 603, f. 55v)

Tolkien came across the Advent Lyrics as an undergraduate at Oxford, around 1914, and it gave him the name 'Eärendil' which he was to use in his own mythology. Later in his life he wrote (through a fictional persona) of how encountering the first few lines of this poem produced 'a curious thrill, as if something had stirred in me, half wakened from sleep. There was something very remote and strange and beautiful behind those words.' He called these lines 'rapturous words from which ultimately sprang the whole of my mythology', and explained his understanding of the name's appearance in this poem:

I was struck by the great beauty of this word (or name), entirely coherent with the normal style of A[nglo]-S[axon], but euphonic to a peculiar degree in that pleasing but not 'delectable' language. Also its form strongly suggests that it is in origin a proper name and not a common noun. This is borne out by the obviously related forms in other Germanic languages; from which amid the confusions and debasements of late traditions it at least seems certain that it belonged to astronomical-myth, and was the name of a star or star-group. To my mind the A-S uses seem plainly to indicate that it was a star presaging the dawn (at any rate in the English tradition): that is what we now call Venus: the morning-star as it may be seen rising brilliantly in the dawn, before the actual rising of the Sun. That is at any rate how I took it. Before 1914 I wrote a 'poem' upon Earendel who launched his ship like a bright spark from the havens of the Sun. I adopted him into my mythology - in which he became a prime figure as a mariner, and eventually as a herald star, and a sign of hope to men.

Tolkien's Eärendil became a herald, more akin to John the Baptist (light of the summer solstice) than to Christ (light of the winter solstice), although Christ is clearly the subject of the Old English poem. The poem Tolkien refers to here is The Voyage of Éarendel the Evening Star, which he wrote on 24 September 1914 - perhaps significantly, the date of the equinox feast of the conception of John the Baptist. It's been called 'the founding moment of Middle-earth', and it was a first attempt to imagine an identity for this mysterious Earendel, personified star - the beginnings of a new cosmological myth.

As Tolkien's mythology grew over the next few decades, so did the story of his Eärendil. He developed a family history which gave him half-Elven descent, gained a tragic love-story, and became the father of twin sons, Elrond and Elros (first king of Númenor). But his ultimate fate was still to become a star, bearing the light of a Silmaril in his ship across the night sky. He forms part of the ancient legendary past which gives depth to the backdrop of The Lord of the Rings, as for instance the subject of a long poem sung by Bilbo in Rivendell. In Lothlórien, Galadriel gives to Frodo a phial containing the light of Eärendil's star. When Sam and Frodo are trapped in the darkness of Shelob's lair, it is the light of Eärendil which comes to their aid:

[A]s he stood, darkness about him and a blackness of despair and anger in his heart, it seemed to him that he saw a light: a light in his mind, almost unbearably bright at first, as a sun-ray to the eyes of one long hidden in a windowless pit... 'Master, master!' cried Sam, and the life and urgency came back into his voice. 'The Lady's gift! The star-glass! A light to you in dark places, she said it was to be. The star-glass!'

'The star-glass?' muttered Frodo, as one answering out of sleep, hardly comprehending. 'Why yes! Why had I forgotten it? A light when all other lights go out! And now indeed light alone can help us.'

Slowly his hand went to his bosom, and slowly he held aloft the Phial of Galadriel. For a moment it glimmered, faint as a rising star struggling in heavy earthward mists, and then as its power waxed, and hope grew in Frodo's mind, it began to burn, and kindled to a silver flame, a minute heart of dazzling light, as though Eärendil had himself come down from the high sunset paths with the last Silmaril upon his brow. The darkness receded from it until it seemed to shine in the centre of a globe of airy crystal, and the hand that held it sparkled with white fire.

Frodo gazed in wonder at this marvellous gift that he had so long carried, not guessing its full worth and potency. Seldom had he remembered it on the road, until they came to Morgul Vale, and never had he used it for fear of its revealing light. Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima! he cried, and knew not what he had spoken; for it seemed that another voice spoke through his, clear, untroubled by the foul air of the pit.

Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima means 'Hail Eärendil, brightest of stars', and is, as Tolkien later put it, 'derived at long remove' from the line of the Old English poem: Eala earendel, engla beorhtast. There's a beautiful chain of reinterpretation at work here: Latin antiphon becomes Anglo-Saxon poem becomes Elvish cry of praise. The power of the light and the power of the words are entwined, and Frodo's experience as he speaks these words, with a voice not his own, recalls the strange, quasi-mystical effect the Anglo-Saxon poem seems to have had on Tolkien when he first read it. 'Another voice spoke through his' - the voice of an Anglo-Saxon poet, seeking light in his own deep darkness.

The Sun (BL Harley 603, f. 58)