|
XLII
THE SCRINEVERS' PLAY
PETER
Welcome, Thomas; where hast thou been?
Wit well, nor doubt not what I mean.
Jesus our Lord we late have seen,
On ground to go.
THOMAS
What say ye men? Your wits, I ween,
Are mazed for woe.
JOHN
Nay, Thomas, this is true and plain;
Jesus our Lord is risen again.
THOMAS
Away! This is the dreaming vain
Of fools unwise.
For he that was so foully slain,
How should he rise?
Nay, fellows; now this talk let be.
Until I shall his body see,
And lay upon his nail-prints three
My fingers there,
And feel the wound that piercingly
The spear did tear—
Till then, to trust no tales I mean.
JAMES
Thomas, that wound have we all seen.
THOMAS
Bah! Ye know never what ye mean;
Your wits ye want
Seek not—for I am not so green—
Your tricks to plant.
JESUS
My brethren, peace to you this day.
Thomas, take tent to what I say.
Thy fingers on these wounds now lay,—
My hands here see,—
By which for mans' good did I pay,
Nailed on a tree.
See how my wounds bleed, I command.
Here in my side put in thy hand,
And feel my wounds, and understand
That this is I.
No more mistrust, then; feel, and stand
In trust truly.
THOMAS
My Lord, my God! Ah, well is me!
Ah, blood of price, blest might thou be!
Mankind on earth, behold and see
This blessed sight.
Mercy now, good Lord, ask I thee,
With main and might.
JESUS
Thomas, because thou sawest this sight,
That I am risen by promise plight,
Thou dost believe; but every wight,
Blest be he ever
That is my rising trusts aright,
Yet saw it never.
My brethren, fare now forth from here,
Through every land and country clear.
My rising henceforth far and near
Preached shall be.
My blessing be on all men here,
Who follow me. |
York Mystery Plays