Part 12 (2/2)

73 I acknowledge all my sin And before thee meekly thus Forgiveness crave.

O Lady, let me now but win Into thine inn, Since One suffered even for us, That He might save.

74 Bid me welcome, Mother holy, s.h.i.+eld of all who are forsaken Utterly.

_Church._ Enter to thy seat there lowly, Yet come slowly, For the viands thou seest were baken By G.o.d most high.

75 Lo ye my pillars, doctor, saint, Ambrose, Thomas and Jerome And Augustine, In my service wax not faint, Nor show constraint, And to thee, soul, shall be welcome This fare of mine.

76 To the holy kitchen go: Let us this frail soul restore, That she find grace To reach her journey's end and know Her path, that so By G.o.d brought hither she no more Fail in life's race.

(_Meanwhile Satan goes to and fro, cutting many capers, and another devil comes and says:_)

77 _2nd D._ You're like a lion in a cage.

_1st D._ I'm all afire, with anger blind.

_2nd D._ Why, what's the matter?

_1st D._ To be so taken in, my rage Can nought a.s.suage Nor any rest be to my mind; For, as I flatter 78 Myself, I had by honeyed word Deceived a certain soul, all quick For fires of h.e.l.l.

_2nd D._ Who made you throw it overboard?

_1st D._ He of the sword.

_2nd D._ He played just such another trick On me as well.

79 For I had overcome a soul, Ready to hang itself, unsteady In its despair; Yes, it was given to us whole And I myself was making ready To drag't down there.

80 And lo he made it weep and weep So that the tears ran down along The very ground: You might have heard my curses deep And cries of rage echo among The hills around.

81 But I have hopes that what I've lost Some other day I shall regain, So will we all.

_1st D._ I, brother, cannot share your trust, But I will tempt this soul again Whate'er befall.

82 With new promises will I woo her When from the Church she shall have come Forth to the street Upon her journey: I will to her, And beshrew her If I turn not all their triumph To defeat.

(_The Soul enters with the Angel._)

83 _Soul._ O let not thy protection fail me, Guardian angel, help thy child.

O foes most base, Infidels, why would you a.s.sail me Who to my G.o.d am reconciled And in His grace?

84 Leave me, O ye tempters, leave Unto this most precious feast Of Him who died, Served to sinners for reprieve Of those who grieve For their Redeemer Lord, the Christ And crucified.

(_While the Soul is seated at the table and the Angel standing by her side, the Doctors come with four covered kitchen dishes, singing _Vexilla regis prodeunt_, and after placing them on the table, St Augustine says:_)

85 _St Aug._ Lady, thou that to this feast, Supper of celestial fare n.o.bly divine, Comest as a bidden guest, Must now divest Thyself of worldly thought and care That once were thine.

86 Thou thy body's eyes must close And in fetters sure be tied Fierce appet.i.te, Treacherous guides, infernal foes: Thy ways are those That are a safe support and guide For the contrite.

87 _Church._ Sir, by thee be the table blest: In thy benedictory prayer, To bring relief And new strength to this our guest, Be there expressed The Pa.s.sion's glory in despair And all its grief.

88 Thou, O soul, with orisons, The Virgin's sorrows contemplating Abide even there, And ye others make response Since for this have you been waiting Wrapped in prayer.

(_St Augustine's prayer:_)

89 G.o.d whose might on high appears, Who camest to this world In human guise, In this vale of many fears And sullen tears Thy great glory hast unfurled Before our eyes; 90 And thy Son most delicate By His natural majesty Of divine birth, Ah, in blood and wounds prostrate Is now his state For our vile infirmity And little worth.

91 O Thou ruler of the sky, High G.o.d of power divine, Enduring might, Who for thy creature, man, to die Didst not deny Thy G.o.dhead, and madest Thine Our mortal plight.

92 And thy daughter, mother, bride, n.o.ble flower of the skies, The Virgin blest, Gentle Dove, when her Son died, G.o.d crucified, Ah what tears shed by those eyes Her grief attest.

93 O most precious tears that well From that virgin heart distilled One by one, Flowing at thy sorrow's spell They those perfect eyes have filled And still flow on.

94 Who but one of them might have In it most manifestly That grief to prove, Even that woe and suffering grave Which then overwhelmed thee For thy dear love.

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