Prayer For Those Having Arrived at

A Tuesday Morning Late

 

… all changed, changed utterly:

  A terrible beauty  is born.

 —‘Easter, 1916’ W. B. Yeats

 

 

O Father in Heaven, First Cause and

Creator of all things;

Thou who in the beginning

Madest earth and wind and fire

And saw that all was good;

And in thine all-seeingness,

Eternal as faith,

Thou didst keep too thy watch

Upon this day,

As doth the shepherd over his flock,

Even as the approaching storm did move

Upon the Earth,

As thy Spirit moveth upon

The face of the waters.

And thy hand movéd not.

 

Forgive us this day, O Lord,

We thy children,

Who understandeth as children,

And seeth not that thou moveth

In ways mysterious

Thy works to perform;

Yet seeth only in our callow sight

(Even so thy blesséd gift)

That Thou didst perceive the tempest

In all its imminent and terrible beauty

And gave no sign unto us,

Thy children,

But didst only watch as,

Like the wolf unto the lamb,

It swept upon the Great Forest,

Mercilessly;

Whereupon it did lash out,

Its terrible lightning striking first one,

And then another,

Of the giants of the forest,

High upon their tops:

Yea, thunder-shuddering them,

As with a vengeance,

Unto their very roots,

Whereupon they did burst into flame;

Wherein its creatures, thy creatures,

Who did dwell therein,

Cried out unto thee even then,

O Father in Heaven,

Frantic of impending death;

And upon whom Thou didst only look down,

In all thy watchful and goodly beneficence,

Upon they, thy wailing children,

From on high,

Thy heavenly manse,

Uninterveningly

(Even as we gaze down

Upon the lowly ant who,

Having lost the trail after its own kind,

Doth rush frantically hither and thither,

As if all were irreparably lost)

And hear, in their terror,

Their wailing,

Which did only increase

When did the mighty giants

Shake and tremble

Of the firestorm visited upon them

And fall down, down,

Oh, so frightfully,

Yea, even unto the forest floor

Where they did lay,

With their like downfallen creatures,

In smoke and smoldering cinders,

And ashes,

Dust into dust,

Wherein no more was heard

But were silent all.

 

And yet the downfalling tempest,

Unlike Thou, O Lord,

Lingered not to see the woeful reapings

Of its hellish wrath,

For quickly had it moved

Upon the face of the earth

That it might visit unto other of thine

Blest and earthly paradises

Its ferment and its lightning,

Striking lower, yea, lower yet

Until, prodigal of its own fury,

It too lay fallen and spent;

Wherefore much and many

Were the smoke and ashes

Upon the land

Which abideth yet.

 

And forgive us, too, O Lord,

In our grieving,

We thy tempest-shaken  multitudes,

If the lightning hath blinded us,

This day of days,

To thine infinite wisdom

And mercy

And seeth not that it is but a breath

Of thy Master Plan

Which, like unto the wind,

Moveth ever and mysterious

In its ways

Though we see it not

As we see not spirit.

 

Pray, forgive us too, All-merciful,

If we fail of seeing,

In our anguished and sorrowing hearts,

That from the ashes and dust

Of the fallen

Shall spring forth anew

A forest afresh, more glorious still

Whence shall arise

Yea, even as the phoenix,

More lofty Colossians yet;

Wherein shall be born again,

And dwell anew,

Such creatures of thine own making

And image

That, when enough of storm and tempest

Hath visited unto them,

And sorrow,

Then shall arise and sweep over them

A great and lasting peace

In this, our earthly world,

Our only world;

Earthly paradise

Of thine own Almighty and loving hand

Which, for all its tempests

And firestorms,

Its downfallings,

And ashes

Is yet blesséd and beautiful,

And shall be more beauteous still

Though it cometh late

And we know not when.

 

Hear now, O Father,

This solemn prayer

This year of our Lord,

This day,

This morn,

This Tuesday.