Lamentation of Mary
With a bit of mysticism and other musings
Another Friday in Lent, gentle readers, brings another poem about the Passion and a particularly interesting one at that.
The poem begins, as many others, with a medieval man or woman going about his or her medieval business, in this case going to Mass, whereupon an encounter occurs which provides the pretext / context of the poem. The technical term for this is chanson d’aventure. This being a Catholic screed, I have presented a few which all have religious themes. The “genre,” however, extends to secular verse. There survive a number of poems in which a shepherd or woodsman encounters / is encountered by King Edward, the conceit being that the rustic does not recognise the king and only later discovers the man’s true identity.1 Those poems, and others, consist of lengthy dialogues with interspersed narration which could very easily be staged for performance. The “happening upon another” functions as more than a mere pretext, but rather forms the setting / foundation of the plot.
In other poems, the encounter provides only the opening pretext for a soliloquy from the figure encountered or a dialogue between the narrator and that figure. From an authorial / scribal intention perspective, it would appear that the chanson d’aventure opening was frequently used as a commonplace or as a simple convention. Some surviving versions of today’s poem, and others like it, do not contain the opening encounter. It served as a handy device for some scribes or, perhaps, simply became attached to certain poems over the years.
Thankfully, we get to read these poems rather than worry about writing them and so can move beyond any intention the scribe may or may not have had. The most brief chanson d’ aventure at the beginning of these religious lyrics functions on many levels. In one way, it takes the place of the “instructions for reading” often prefixed to poems of the period. The encounter with the devotional figure during the course of every day life directs the reader to read the poem practically as well as devotionally. In other words, what follows applies to one’s life in real ways which will require action on one’s part. This is often made explicit by the figure encountered in the ensuing speech / dialogue.
One striking feature of these poems is the narrator’s non chalant reaction to stumbling upon Jesus, Mary, or perhaps the odd Saint during the course of business. I have found no example in which there is any gushing forth of amazement, fear or awe, no falling to knees or shielding of eyes. “I saw a syght me lykyd welle” is about as excited as we get. In some poems there is a sense that the narrator decides to stop to have a look and could just as easily continue on his / her way. When the narrator is out for a stroll, the poems usually begin in medias res – I saw a woman (already) sat beneath a tree (already) weeping, for example. In all, the encounter, which is a mystical encounter, happens in the midst of life. It does not come to you, as in a beatific vision or a dream, you come to it, because it’s already there; the divine sustains all creation, is therefore immanent in all creation and may be encountered directly thereby. Kataphatic mysticism, the via positiva, as opposed to apophatic mysticism or the via negativa. Although I stress these are simply my musings here, not actual “research,” or indeed any suggestion of “influence,” think Rolle as opposed to The Cloud of Unknowing.
This particular poem stands out in a number of ways. It is some thing of a rarity in that the Blessed Virgin speaks to women and specifically to mothers. This allows for the idea of encountering the divine in every day life, as well as putting the divine into one’s life, that is,remembering the divine, to be expressed in startling contrasts between what all mothers do with and for their babies, with joy, and those same physical movements performed on Jesus, which are the Passion: garlanding the child contrasted with the crown of thorns. The image of Christ’s passion, inflicted on an infant no less, is thrust into the medieval polaroid moment. This contrast gets expressed, rather cleverly, on the stylistic level in word play. The same word, or a form of the same word, is used in respect of both the Blessed Mother and the mothers addressed but with different connotations.2 The similar employed to express difference.
The Blessed Virgin forces the mothers addressed into her mind, specifically into her memory. Unique, Theotokos memories. When she bounced Jesus on her knee and He laughed she knew he would die tortured and humiliated. Did she also hear the laughter of those who mocked Christ? It’s disorienting. From the Anunciation onward, Mary already knows what she will remember. Everything that happens is already a memory in a way. Mary also recalls the foresight. Holding Christ’s entire body once again, memory recalls what, to the Blessed Mother, has always been present to her mind and is now, on Calvary, once again but only real, right before her eyes. The poem brings the run-of-the-mill, did-not-give-birth-to-God, mother into this world where every interaction between mother and child in the present is both a prediction and a memory. The future is always present and it’s made of the past. Mystical time for a mystical encounter. Think Four Quartets and The Cloud of Unknowing rather than Walt Whitman or Richard Rolle.
The use of the Pieta, an aspect of the Passion not found in the Gospels, connects this poem to a larger European tradition / genre of poems which is said to have emerged analogously, if not in parallel, to the emergence of the Pieta in art from depictions of the Blessed Mother cradling only her dead Son’s head / head and shoulders in her lap at the foot of the Cross, surrounded by other figures in traditional positions (i.e. Mary Magdalene at Christ’s feet).3 The Pieta proper, in England, first appeared and flourished in the fifteenth century. The earlier Passion Plays do not contain the scene, nor is it found widely, if at all, elsewhere prior to the fifteenth century.4 Fortunately, the Pieta poems fared better than the art in the destructions of the sixteenth century, to which they were particularly vulnerable what with the Blessed Mother and the fact that in the Gospels Mary does not hold her dead Son’s body in her lap at the foot of the cross. This poem is said by its editor to have been written no earlier than the first quarter of the fifteenth century:5
Lamentacion Beati Mariae
In a chyrch as I gan knelle
Thys endres dey for to here messe,
I saw a syght me lykyd welle;
I schall you tell how that it was.
I saw a Pyté in a place:
Oure Lady and hyr sone in fere;
Wele oft sche syghed and seyd, “Alas,
For now lyes dede my dere son dere.”6
Than seyd Oure Lady bothe meke and myld
To all women: “Behold and se,
And make ye no mone for your chyld,
Of Godys sond if it dede be.
For if ye do, ye be not wyse
To se my sone as he lyghet here.
Now he is dede — lo, were he lyes.
For thi sone dyghd my dere son dere.
“All mankynd behold and se:
My sone is nayled throught fote and hond.
With scharpe thornys and grete envye,
Jues put up hys hede with poyntys strong.
Hys herte was persyd with a spere so long
The blod busschyd out as ye may se here.”
Sche seyd, “Alas, I lyfe to long —
Why ne had I dyghed with my der son dere?
“All women that ever be bore
And have bore chylder, behold and se
How my son lyes me before
On my skyrte, take fro the rode tre.
When ye danse your chylder on your kne,
Ye clyppe and kyse with mery chere.
Behold my sone and behold me:
For thy son dyghed my dere son dere.
“O woman, now wele is thee.
Thy chyldys cape thou doyst upon;
Thou pykys hys erys and behold hys ble;
Thow wote not wele when thou hast don.
Bot ever, alas, I make my mone
To se my sone as he lyght here.
Oute of hys hede I pyke many a thorn —
For thi son dyed my dere son dere.
“Woman, a chaplyte ichos thou haste
Thy chyld to were to thy lykyng.
Thou pynyst hyr, and grete joy thou makyst,
And I sytte here full sore wepyng —
My sone hath a chaplyte of thornes prikyng.
I clype hym and kys with carefull chere;
Thou syttys syngyng, and I wepyng.
For thi son dyghed my dere sone dere.
“Woman, when thu lyst to pley,
Thou hast thi chyld on thi kne dansyng.
Thou beholdys hys fase and hys aray
Unto thi eye full wele lykyng.
The longyst fynger of my hond beyng
Throught my sonys fete I may thyrst it here,
And take it oute full sore wepyng.
For thi son dyghed my dere sone dere.
“Woman, loke on me agene.
Thy chyld lyes sowkyng on thi pappys.
Therof me thynke it is grete harme
In my sonys brest to se grete gappys,
And onne hys hede and body so many slapys.
With blody lyppys I kys hym here.
Full herd,” sche seyd, “now be myn happys —
Why ne had I dyghed with my dere sone dere?
“Woman, thy chyld is hole and sownd,
And myn lyeht dede upon my kne.
Thyn is lowse, and myn is bownd,
And thyn hath lyfe, and dede is he.
And all is for the luffe of thee,
For my sone trespassyd never here.
Woman, com and wepe with me;
For thy sone dyghed my dere son dere.
“Wepe with me, both man and wyffe;
My sone is yours and lufys you wele.
And thyn were dede and hade no lyfe,
Thou cowth well wepe at every mele;
For my son thou wepys never a dele.
Thoff thou lufe thyn, myn hath no pere.
Thynke my son gafe thee lyfe and hele;
For thi sone dyghed my dere sone dere.
“Woman, now thou canste thi wyte.
Thou seyst thi chyld whether it be seke or dede.
Wepe thou for myn and not for it,
And thou schall have mych to thy mede.
Thynke my sone wyll agayn bled
Rather than thou dampnyd were.
To this matyr thou take gode hede;
For thy son dyghed my dere son dere.
“Farewele, women, I may no more
Rehers youre chylder and your godnys.
I have wepyd for my son so sore
That I forgete all joy and blys.
I praye you all to thynke on this:
My son is your and lufys you wele.
Thynke on hys passyon and hys blys;
For thy son dyghed my dere sone dere.”
AMEN QUOD RATHE
MS Ashmole 617
Forgive me the lack of brevity, merciful reader, for I must admit to a strong partiality for this particular lyric. So much so that I expect to see it again in another version. Until then, I remain joyfully expectant of a fish supper of modest size in an hour or two and,
Your devoted servant,
Peregrinus
For one example see King Edward and The Shepherd for one example and, while you’re at it, have a trawl through Books in the “Reference & Guides” section of the Peregrinus page to find many more.
traductio is the term for this in classical rhetoric / composition.
For what follows, as well as much else, I rely on the introduction to this poem from the Middle English Text Series website and Woolf (1968) - see Books in the “Reference & Guides” section of the Peregrinus page.
Scholars tend to deem at least some of the infrequent earlier the appearances of the pieta as fifteenth century scribal additions.
For unfamiliar vocabulary, please see Middle / Early Modern English Glossary in the “Reference & Guides” section of the Peregrinus page. It may be necessary with the above piece to root around a bit - words may be listed under another spelling variant. I do try to cover the all the bases, but some do get by me.
For your son my beloved son died at great cost - dere has an interesting etymology which the poet plays on here. The word in Old English “deore” meant “precious, high in value, glorious, noble.” This easily transferred to loved ones - “dear” people, people we think are precious. The word also took a negative turn in that “high in value” became “high in price, expensive,” as in “£2.99 / lb.? Oh, my, potatoes are dear.”
Glorious poem, dear Peregrinus! And I truly enjoyed reading your thoughts and explanations.
Amazingly easy to read, and so powerful 🙏💙💫