Samson: a Ballad

Tags

Ashkelon, ballad, Dagon, Delilah, Gazites, Hebron, jawbone of an ass, Lucas Cranach the Elder, Manoah, Philistines, Samson, Timnath, Weimarer Stadtschloss

(Samson Fighting the Lion: Lucas Cranach

the Elder ; Weimarer Stadtschloss;

Accession No G12)

 

Manoah wept: he had no son.

An angel told his wife:

You will conceive a son and give

him up to God for life.

 

This angel came again and he

had piercing azure eyes.

Manoah, liking what he said,

offered to sacrifice

 

a kid to God and, in the smoke,

the spirit heavenwards

ascended, while the man and wife

pondered on his words.

 

Samson grew in stature tall;

a razor did not trim

his hair, as he was set aside:

the role of Judge, for him.

 

A daughter of his enemies

came to his notice, so,

in spite of what his father said,

to Timnath he would go.

 

Meeting a lion would not prevent

his marriage to a stranger.

He tore the animal apart

(its threat to him no danger.)

 

And, when he passed the carcase next,

bees had filled its middle.

Scooping out honey, he laughed aloud:

Aha!  I have a riddle!

 

Thirty young men attended the feast.

What is strong, but also sweet?

He bet they’d never work it out,

but Samson’s wife was not discreet.

 

The answer, pressured out of her,

Samson lost the forfeit,

but he went down to Ashkelon

and found a way to cheat:

 

he offered the thirty all the fruits

he’d pillaged, far and wide.

Father-in-law was unimpressed

and gave away the bride.

 

Please let me sleep with her, Sam cried,

but ‘father-in-law’ rejected

his overtures and offered up

someone unexpected.

 

Raging, Samson stormed to the fields,

fiery foxes tying

by their tails, igniting corn,

until the crops were dying.

 

The Philistines burned Samson’s ‘wife’

in retaliation.

He took the jawbone of an ass;

displayed his indignation.

 

Twenty years passed and he

the role of Judge enacted,

but, like a moth to candle flames,

was fatally attracted

 

to a harlot (spied upon) –

a honey trap, or bait.

Gazites lay in wait for him.

He made off with the gate

 

and posts, which held the city wall.

He carried them to Hebron.

Enough of whores: he fell in love,

exhibiting his brawn,

 

but not his brain.  Delilah (bribed)

to find his secret strength,

determined, showing greed and pique,

to go to any length

 

until he was unwise and told

how he eschewed a razor.

And, when his hair was shorn away,

his weakness did amaze her.

 

The Spirit of the Lord had left

and Samson, unaware,

had eyes gouged out; was bound with chains

now that he’d lost his hair.

 

A trophy, he would grind the corn,

till Dagon’s feast came round

and then, for sport, they hauled him out-

still bloodied, beaten, bound.

 

Two pillars served as a support,

to lean against the stone,

but hair had grown; his strength returned –

he gave a mighty groan.

 

O let me die with Philistines,

he prayed.  Thy will be done.

He brought the house down literally

and killed them – every one.

 

They buried him beside Manoah.

A Deliverer he’d become,

achieving more in death than life,

foreshadowing God’s son.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ballad of the Twice-Hanged Man

Tags

ballad, Downside, Hereford, Lazarus, leper, pilgrimage, Prime, Santo Severo church, Swansea Castle, Terce, Thomas Cantelope, Trahaern ap Hwyel, twice-hanged man, veneration, Wassail Gate, William Cragh

(tomb of Thomas Cantelope in Hereford

Cathedral: Wikipedia)

 

William Cragh was a warrior bold;

rebelled against the king.

Thirteen men were slain by him

and so he had to swing.

 

Outside Swansea Castle stood

the gibbet where he’d die.

Trahaern ap Hywel broke the beam

(they’d swung him up so high.)

 

Both were hanged again, it’s said,

from Terce until Prime.

Lady Mary* claimed his corpse

for burial in due time.

 

William’s eyes were bulging out;

his face was black as coal.

They wheeled him to Tom Mathew’s house,

while she prayed for his soul:

 

Bishop Thomas Cantelope,

hear me when I pray.

Restore to life this rebel here

and wash his sins away.

 

Her ladies took a silken thread,

to span the dead man’s length.

A candle of such size I’ll make,

as measure of faith’s strength.

 

The dead man’s feet began to twitch;

a fortnight later stood

and walked right through the Wassail Gate,

among the great and good.

 

The executioner and priest;

a thirteen year old youth;

Lady Mary’s son to boot

witnessed to the truth.

 

In English, Latin, French and Welsh

all doubts were then erased.

For each confirmed they felt the same:

William had been raised!

 

Will left his effigy in wax

and placed it on the grave

of Cantelope, in Hereford

and, steadily a wave

 

of veneration then arose;

priests were soon advised

of miracles and so they pressed

to have him canonised.

 

Will lived a further eighteen years,

till, Lazarus-like, he died,

but the tongue that swelled to choke him once,

on pilgrimage testified

 

that some recovered speech and sight

and lepers had been healed,

yet he alone was a twice-hanged man,

whose death had been repealed.

 

In Santo Severo church, the flesh

of  Cantelope rests still;

his bones in Hereford reside –

in Downside lies his skull.

 

 

 

 

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT

Tags

ballad, de-cluttering, Field of Blood, Forgiveness Window, Judas, Judas tree, Lord's Supper, Monk Pear tea, Robert William Buchanan

THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT.

How are you getting on with clearing out your cellar,

Candia?

Brassica and I were in our favourite haunt, sharing

a Monk Pear tea.

It takes hours to throw away a few sheets of paper,

I admitted.  I keep wondering if I might need all the

notes for future reference.  Then I come across old

school anthologies of narrative verse and feel compelled

to read the less familiar poems.

You’ll need to be more ruthless with yourself, advised

Brassie.

Hmmm, that’s not a problem normally, I replied.  Anyway,

you know how I have been banging on about Judas since

Lent and even before…

Yes, we have all read your poems on your WordPress site,

Brassie interrupted.

Well, I discovered a ballad I had been unaware of by a poet

called Robert Williams Buchanan on the subject and I am going

to publish it on my site so readers who enjoyed my ‘Judas

Tree’, ‘The Forgiveness Window’ and  so on can continue to

develop their thoughts and join me on my theological journey-

dreadfully cliched metaphor, though that is!

Good idea, said Brassie, but don’t get too sidetracked.  Your

husband will be fed up with your rate of de-cluttering.

So, here is the poem:

’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay in the Field of Blood;
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Beside the body stood.

Black was the earth by night,
And black was the sky;
Black, black were the broken clouds,
Tho’ the red Moon went by.

’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Strangled and dead lay there;
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Look’d on it in despair.

The breath of the World came and went
Like a sick man’s in rest;
Drop by drop on the World’s eyes
The dews fell cool and blest.

Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did make a gentle moan—
‘I will bury underneath the ground
My flesh and blood and bone.

‘I will bury deep beneath the soil,
Lest mortals look thereon,
And when the wolf and raven come
The body will be gone!

‘The stones of the field are sharp as steel,
And hard and cold, God wot;
And I must bear my body hence
Until I find a spot!’

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
So grim, and gaunt, and gray,
Raised the body of Judas Iscariot,
And carried it away.

And as he bare it from the field
Its touch was cold as ice,
And the ivory teeth within the jaw
Rattled aloud, like dice.

As the soul of Judas Iscariot
Carried its load with pain,
The Eye of Heaven, like a lanthorn’s eye,
Open’d and shut again.

Half he walk’d, and half he seemed
Lifted on the cold wind;
He did not turn, for chilly hands
Were pushing from behind.

The first place that he came unto
It was the open wold,
And underneath were prickly whins,
And a wind that blew so cold.

The next place that he came unto
It was a stagnant pool,
And when he threw the body in
It floated light as wool.

He drew the body on his back,
And it was dripping chill,
And the next place be came unto
Was a Cross upon a hill.

A Cross upon the windy hill,
And a Cross on either side,
Three skeletons that swing thereon,
Who had been crucified.

And on the middle cross-bar sat
A white Dove slumbering;
Dim it sat in the dim light,
With its head beneath its wing.

And underneath the middle Cross
A grave yawn’d wide and vast,
But the soul of Judas Iscariot
Shiver’d, and glided past.

The fourth place that he came unto
It was the Brig of Dread,
And the great torrents rushing down
Were deep, and swift, and red.

He dared not fling the body in
For fear of faces dim
And arms were waved in the wild water
To thrust it back to him.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Turned from the Brig of Dread,
And the dreadful foam of the wild water
Had splashed the body red.

For days and nights he wandered on
Upon an open plain,
And the days went by like blinding mist,
And the nights like rushing rain.

For days and nights he wandered on,
All thro’ the Wood of Woe;
And the nights went by like moaning wind,
And the days like drifting snow.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Came with a weary face—
Alone, alone, and all alone,
Alone in a lonely place!

He wandered east, he wandered west,
And heard no human sound;
For months and years, in grief and tears,
He wandered round and round,

For months and years, in grief and tears,
He walked the silent night;
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Perceived a far-off light.

A far-off light across the waste,
As dim as dim might be,
That came and went like the lighthouse gleam
On a black night at sea.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Crawl’d to the distant gleam;
And the rain came down, and the rain was blown
Against him with a scream.

For days and nights he wandered on,
Push’d on by hands behind;
And the days went by like black, black rain,
And the nights like rushing wind.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot,
Strange, and sad, and tall,
Stood all alone at dead of night
Before a lighted hall.

And the wold was white with snow,
And his foot-marks black and damp,
And the ghost of the silvern Moon arose,
Holding her yellow lamp.

And the icicles were on the eaves,
And the walls were deep with white,
And the shadows of the guests within
Pass’d on the window light.

The shadows of the wedding guests
Did strangely come and go,
And the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretch’d along the snow.

The body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretched along the snow;
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Ran swiftly to and fro.

To and fro, and up and down,
He ran so swiftly there,
As round and round the frozen Pole
Glideth the lean white bear.

’Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-head,
And the lights burnt bright and clear—
‘Oh, who is that,’ the Bridegroom said,
‘Whose weary feet I hear?’

’Twas one look’d from the lighted hall,
And answered soft and slow,
‘It is a wolf runs up and down
With a black track in the snow.’

The Bridegroom in his robe of white
Sat at the table-head—
‘Oh, who is that who moans without?’
The blessed Bridegroom said.

’Twas one looked from the lighted hall,
And answered fierce and low,
‘’Tis the soul of Judas Iscariot
Gliding to and fro.’

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did hush itself and stand,
And saw the Bridegroom at the door
With a light in his hand.

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he was clad in white,
And far within the Lord’s Supper
Was spread so broad and bright.

The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and look’d,
And his face was bright to see—
‘What dost thou here at the Lord’s Supper
With thy body’s sins?’ said he.

’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stood black, and sad, and bare—
‘I have wandered many nights and days;
There is no light elsewhere.’

’Twas the wedding guests cried out within,
And their eyes were fierce and bright—
‘Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot
Away into the night!’

The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he waved hands still and slow,
And the third time that he waved his hands
The air was thick with snow.

And of every flake of falling snow,
Before it touched the ground,
There came a dove, and a thousand doves
Made sweet sound.

’Twas the body of Judas Iscariot
Floated away full fleet,
And the wings of the doves that bare it off
Were like its winding-sheet.

’Twas the Bridegroom stood at the open door,
And beckon’d, smiling sweet;
’Twas the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stole in, and fell at his feet.

‘The Holy Supper is spread within,
And the many candles shine,
And I have waited long for thee
Before I poured the wine!’

The supper wine is poured at last,
The lights burn bright and fair,
Iscariot washes the Bridegroom’s feet,
And dries them with his hair.

(This version of the poem from:

http://www.robertbuchanan.co.uk/html/sel4.html)

The Ballad of St Mary Overie

Tags

ballad, Cromwell, emoticon, Southwark Cathedral, St Mary Overie

Brassie texted me: What’s all this poetic activity you are indulging in?

She doesn’t understand texting, so she always writes formally and at length.

Oh, I just had all these ballads hanging around, not being published, so thought

that I’d give them an airing.

I actually condensed the latter quite a bit.

She sent me an emoticon!

Anyway, here is the last ballad you will be getting for a while!

THE BALLAD OF ST. MARY OVERIE

John Overs was a waterman.

Lucrative trade plied he:

before a bridge the Thames did span,

he controlled the ferry.

A goodly living he then made,

so bought a large estate,

but, miserly, he felt betrayed

by what his servants ate.

To feign his death seemed a good plot:

his household then would fast,

but nothing happened as he’d thought-

they gorged what he’d amassed.

Enraged he leapt out of his bed.

A servant at the wake

thrashed an oar about his head

until his skull did break.

Thinking that Satan had appeared

to take his master’s soul,

he split John from the nave to beard:

the ferryman paid his toll.

He paid his toll for his folly.

His daughter, deep-distressed,

in bereavement’s melancholy

beat at her brains and breast.

“Send for my lover.  He must come

in this my hour of need.

We two have gained a princely sum.

Tell him to come.  God speed.”

Her lover hastened in his greed,

beside himself with glee.

But, riding he did not pay heed;

was injured fatally.

Her whole inheritance she gave

to found a convent there.

Two lives were lost, so she would save

others through her prayer.

St. Mary Overie became

Southwark’s Priory and

St. Saviour’s Church was its new name

when Cromwell stormed the land.

Now a cathedral, it stands proud,

though founded on men’s sins.

London was thereby endowed,

which proves Grace always wins.