Companion to the English prose works of Richard Rolle : a selection / from the edition by Carl Horstman.

The rysyng vp of owre lorde Ihesu, and how he apperid firste to his modire, oure lady saynte Marie amen.

When oure lorde Ihesu had dispoylled hell & takene Adam & Eue & all oþer holy ffadirs & sett þem in paradyse — þat es a place of delite, where Ennoke & Hely dwellis: he toke leue at theme, & said he wolde go & take agayne his body and rayse it agayne to lyue. Then come he with gret haste to his graue, one þe sonndaye herely at morne; and toke agayne his blissede body owt of þe graue, & wente forthe thurghe his aghene myght. / Þat same houre, herly at morne, Marie Maudeleyne & hir two sisters asked leue at oure lady & went with þeire oynementes to þe sepulcre-warde. Bot owre lady bod styll at home, and prayede to þe ffadire of heuene, sayand: «Fadir of mercy & pite, ȝe knowe wele þat my sone es dede and was schamfully hangede be-twyx thefes, & I helpede to bery hyme with my handes. I knowe wele þat ȝe are of myghte & powere to restore hym agayne to me hole and sonde: and þerfore haue mercy of me: I beseke ȝour hye mageste þat ȝe wolde gyffe me hyme agayne. A, lorde, where es he? why taries he thus longe fro me? send hym to me I pray ȝowe, for my soule may noghte ryste to I haue hym. A, my dere swete sone, what es comene one the? whate dose thow? why taryes þou so longe? I pray the, my dere sone, duell noo langare fro me. For þou said thi-selfe þou sulde ryse þe thyrd daye: & þis es þe thyrde daye, my dere sone. Noghte ȝysterday, bot be-fore ȝisterday, was þat ill day, þat bitter day, þat wrechid day, the day of sorow & of myrknesse, þe day of twynnyng & of bitter dede. Þer-fore, my dere sone, þis day es þe thred day. There-fore, Ryse vp now, my Ioye and all my comforthe, & come agayne to me: ffor ouer all thyng desyre I to se þe. I pray þe þat thyne agayne-come glade me whame þi departynge hase mekyll myscomforthed, & solace me with thi blissede presence whame thyne absence hase mekill hevyde. Come agayne now, þou my wele-belouede sone. Come, my lorde Ihesu. Come, þou onely my hope. Come to me, my dere childe». And whylles scho prayed thus with louely teres: sodeynly come oure lord Ihesu in clothes whyte as any snawe, his fface schynyng as þe sone, all specyouse, all gloryouse & all full of Ioye, and said to his modire: «Haile, holy modire». And as sonne scho turnede hir & said: «Art þou my dere sone Ihesu?» & with þat scho knelid downne & wirchyped hym: and he lowly Enclyned and toke hir vp, & said: «My dere modire, ȝa, I am ȝour sone, & I am resyne, & I am with ȝow«. Þen rose they vp to-gedire, & scho halsede hym & kyssede hyme, and tendirly and loueandly lened one hyme, and he tendirly & mekly helde hir vpe. Aftirwarde þey stode to-gedire, and euer scho behelde one his fface, and

þe wondis in his heuede & in his fete, & aftire one all his blyssede body, & askede hym if all his payne & his disesse were passede a-waye fro hym. Thene said he: «Ȝa, my dere modire, I haue ouer-comene sorow & wo, and I sall no more fele þer-of: bot I am, & sall be, in Endlesse Ioye & blysse». Þen said oure lady: «Now blyssede be thy ffadire, my dere sone, þat hase thus gefene the to me; in heuene & erthe prayssede and magnyfiede be his holy name, in worlde of worldes with-owttyne Ende Amen». Then stode þey to-gedire with gret Ioye and gladnese of herte, holdande þeire speche all In Ioye & in delite of lufe; and oure lorde Ihesu tolde hys modire how he had delyueride his pepyll owt of hell, & all þe meracles & þe wondirs þat he had done þire thre dayes. Lo þis es now a Ioyfull gladsumnes & a merye paske!