Fallen Church

Ther was a kyng ful gode and mylde, þat in feiþ rulde al þe lond, A pious lord, wiþ crowne and ryng, tok power in his hond. He swoor his oþ by morwen lyght, a chirche to make, ful fayr and brad, But þries it fel, by morwen belle, þe stones lay cold and dad. Biforn he bilt, þe kyng had spoken, “Þe olde kyrke is to smal; Breke it doun, crowned in glorie, and ryse a gretter halle. Þe relykes of Engelȝ seint þere shul reste in royal grace.” But as he brake þat holi hal, pryde wryt upon his face. He calde his masouns, gode and trewe: “Rer up þe walles agayn!” Þei kerf þe ston and set þe bemes, þurgh sunne and wynd and reyn. Þries þei bilt, and þries it fel, ech tyme in derker houre, And morwe fond but broken ston and ruyn of þe toure. “Þe stones ben cursed!” þe werkmen cride, “Þe roche is self unblest! Þe heþen dede bynethe hem lyen, and graunten non reste!” Þei kest þe olde into þe cold, and wroght þe walles newe, But eft it brak and fel in tweyn, and noon þe resoun knewe. Þe monkes wept and softe seide, “Peraventure Lord seith þus: Þis soyle is cursed, where b***d was spilt, and men were slayn for Jhesus. No temple stonde on gilty lond, where wratþ and werre han regned; Þe Lord wole not suffre halewed walles on hate to be ychayned.” Þan spak þe abbot, meke and grave: “We shul faste and lowely preye, Þat God turne His wraþ aside, and blesse oure werk som day.” Þei lyte þe lamp and songe her ympnes, þe relykes’ shryne þei kiste, But wynd and fyr swept al awey, and cloþed þe hille in myste. Þan spak þe knyghtes, bright in stele: “Som witche hath cast þis dome! A forest kyng, or spiryte wilde, hath bounde þe chirche to grome!” Þurgh glade and grove, by torche þei rode, til dawe dispelled þe nyght, But noon þei founde, on erþly grounde, þat wroght þe kyng such spyt. Wiþinne þe Tour a lady ligges, her silkes in yren bounde, Þe kyng hire owede weyte of gold, yet justice nas nat founde. And þough hire celle be colde and derk, hire preyer to Hevene gan take, And þe Lord above His aungels sente þe kynges kyrke to breke. Þe kyng outcride wiþ angri voys, “Þe Magus is to blame! His sterres and signes han cursed þis werk, and brouht myn halle to shame! He stereth God wiþ prideful craft, his handes ben defyled in synne!” But as he spak, þe þonder rolde, and storm brak lowd withinne. Þan cam a fool wiþ cappe of reed, and lowh bifor þe kyng: “Þi kyrke is bilt on vanytee, no holi stones þou bring! For God ne dwelleþ nat in toures, ne where þe proud han trod— Bilde first þin herte in mekenes, and þere shal dwelle þi God.”