Kontekstualisering

Jeg lyste nylig et dikt av Rudyard Kipling som i høyeste grad dreier seg om kontekstualisering. Det heter Norman and Saxon, og  handler om en døende Norman Baron, som omkring 1100 gir følgende råd til sin sønn (i utdrag):

‘The Saxon is not like us Normans. His manners are not so polite.

But he never means anything serious till he talks about justice and right’

[…]

‘But first you must master their language, their dialect, proverbs, and

songs.

Don´t trust any clerk to interpret when they come with the tale of their

wrongs.

Let them know that you know what they´re saying; let them feel that you

know what to say.

Yes, even when you want go hunting, hear ´em out if it takes you all day’

«Hymne fra sykesengen»

Lite ante jeg at denne hymnen plutselig, publisert i okt 2010 på denne blogg, skulle få eksistensiell interesse.  Dette diktet er ved  Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639)

Oh thou great Power, in whom I move

For whom I live, to whom I die,

Behold me through thy beams of love,

Whilest on this Couch of tears I lye;

And Cleanse my sordid soul within,

By thy Christs Bloud, the bath of sin.

No hallowed oyls, no grains I need,

No rags of Saints, no purging fire,

One rosie drop from Davids Seed

Was worlds of seas, to quench thine Ire.

O pretious Ransome! Which once paid,

That Consummatum Est was said:

And said by him, that said no more,

But seal´d it with his sacred breath.

Thou then, that has dispung´d my score,

And dying, was the death of death;

Be to me now, on thee I call,

My Life, my Strength, my Joy, my All

Hymne fra sykesengen

Jeg kom nylig over dette diktet av Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1939)

Oh thou great Power, in whom I move

For whom I live, to whom I die,

Behold me through thy beams of love,

Whilest on this Couch of tears I lye;

And Cleanse my sordid soul within,

By thy Christs Bloud, the bath of sin.

 

No hallowed oyls, no grains I need,

No rags of Saints, no purging fire,

One rosie drop from Davids Seed

Was worlds of seas, to quench thine Ire.

O pretious Ransome! Which once paid,

That Consummatum Est was said:

 

And said by him, that said no more,

But seal´d it with his sacred breath.

Thou then, that has dispung´d my score,

And dying, was the death of death;

Be to me now, on thee I call,

My Life, my Strength, my Joy, my All