tra with his vajra, and Thor is “Fenrir’s Bane.” Myths can also be more clearly related.Once you’ve called the divine beings to you it’s time to praise them. Of course, you don’t have to wait for them to come. Praising is good any time.
Prayers of praise do just what the name implies: they praise the divine being.
Praise prayers can serve other purposes. First, they can call a deity to us. Praise forms an image in a worshiper’s mind through which contact can easily be made and sends out a clear signal to the gods that their presence is desired. Second, they can serve to make us more aware of a deity’s presence. The difference here is one of perspective: in the first case, the deity is thought of as not being present, and in the second the deity is already there. That is to say, in the first case, it is the deity who must be reminded, and, in the second, it is the worshiper. A third reason for prayers of praise is that the gods deserve them. It is one of the characteristics of divinity that deities are worthy of praise. It is only fitting that we should offer it. No one who has ever had firsthand experience of a deity will have any trouble understanding what I mean.
The appropriateness of prayers of praise may vary with the deity. For instance, when I am in the presence of Cernunnos, I find that my reaction is one of silent awe, rather than of speech. Nonetheless, I frequently say prayers of praise to him when I wish his presence, falling silent when that is achieved. On the other hand, I find it easy to speak to Brigid; in fact, speaking to her is the easiest way to ensure her presence. Experience and study will teach you what is appropriate for each deity.
Prayers of praise customarily take two forms, both of which may be combined in one prayer. First, they may consist of titles and descriptions strung together. These are particularly difficult to write, because they tend to degenerate into laundry lists. At their best, however, they can lead to ecstasy—for instance, when the person praying is so attached to the deity that the joy of contact comes with each title and accumulates. A list can be carefully constructed so that each title builds on the preceding one, raising awareness a step higher as each name is spoken.
Prayers of praise can also relate the deeds of a deity. I have already mentioned the Homeric Hymns. What we know of the early stories of the Vedic gods comes from the hymns of the Rig Veda. This technique is similar to the listing of titles, which are often simply short references to myths. Indra slew Vtra with his vajra, and Thor is “Fenrir’s Bane.” Myths can also be more clearly related.
From all directions about me, the Spirits are praying.
The Spirits of east and south are praying.
The Spirits of west and north are praying.
The Spirits of below and above are praying.
The Spirits are praying with me.
We all together are praying to the ancient ones.
Looking out at my yard, I see a leaf falling from a tree
and I raise a prayer of awe for the gods
who caused such a marvel to be.
How shall I find words that can capture the truth?
I am far too bold even to try.
For how many before me have dared this, to praise you,
searching themselves for new ways of speaking?
If I could find only one phrase that expressed a sunset,
or a word for birds’ wings, or a sound for clouds,
I would be content.
But so many are your wonders and so inadequate my small attempts
that I can only hope to have reflected some of what you are.
Or perhaps I serve you best when I fall silent in your presence.
What is done in the night,
you see it.
What is done in the day,
you see it.
Who can hide from you,
who are found in all things?
Where would we hide from you,
who are found in all things?
Why would we hide from you,
whose love pours out on all things?
I think now of the ancient times, when your worship first was established. It has been a long time now since your worship was celebrated as it should be, with processions in the marketplaces, with games to unite the scattered tribes, with hospitality granted to strangers in your name. Throughout the lonely times, you have waited patiently, in the sure foreknowledge that the night would end. See now, on the horizon; the light of dawn begins to creep over the edge of the world! We need not wait much longer before the Sun will rise again and shine down once more on a world in which your worship is no longer neglected.
Through the long night, we have kept your faith; in secret or in disguise we have performed the sacred acts. Sometimes, even unbeknownst to us, we have kept ancient lore alive. Now we hope to return to the light, to practice your ways openly and without fear, drawing the thoughts of others to you. In the backs of our people’s minds, they have remembered you, too.
Holy Ones of old, we pray to you!
We who have been faithful pray to you!
Repository of all wisdom,
out of which all others have only a share:
it is to you we look when in need of advice.
The words you speak drop like late summer rains,
refreshing after a drought,
awakening the dormant grass.
Again and again I call to you,
again and again you answer me.
Old and Wise Ones, it is you whom I worship.
This drink pours out, even as your bounty pours out.
What I do here is only an image of your greater generosity.
I pour out libations to the ancient High Ones,
I make my offerings to those who should be worshiped.
All gods,
all goddesses,
all who are worthy of worship:
hear me.
I remember you in the pouring of this wine.
I face east and I pray,
the Holy Ones I praise:
To the Shining Gods and Goddesses, praise.
To the Wise Ancestors, praise.
To the secretive Nature Spirits, praise.
To the Sacred Ones,
To the Holy Ones,
To the Numinous Ones:
Praise, praise, always praise.
I meditate on your name, chewing it over and over,
[God’s name], [God’s name], [God’s name];
with each saying it digs deeper into me,
burrowing a path into my soul,
where it may build a home to dwell within me,
where you will live,
hearing me when I seek you out,
with no real seeking needed, you already there.
[God’s name], [God’s name], [God’s name].
Words fail me in your presence
and at your coming all that is left to me
is wow!
Any or all of the gods
Words fail—I pray,
you come:
Words fail.
Your presence shatters them,
and pushes the pieces away,
too far from me to ever find again.
I don’t care.
They have served their purpose:
they were meant to fall before you.
So small a gift for something so great.
When God and Goddess unite in love,
mystery is born,
and from mystery all things.
Mystery born from mystery born from mystery:
the Great Mystery:
this is their gift.
Glorious the Sun,
and glorious the day in which it shines.
Glory to the Horned God!
Glorious the Moon,
and glorious the night it brightens.
Glory to the Mother Goddess!
Glory to the Begetter!
Glory to She Who Gives Birth!
Glory to the Great God!
Glory to the Great Goddess!
From all that is, glory!
you I praise,
you who sit at ease in the midst of chaos,
you who sit at ease on the edge of a sword.
Can anyone attain the mastery you show
as you hold your place between life and death?
Can anyone rival the poise your presence radiates
as you sit in the gateway between past and future?
Can anyone sit so still, but be so ready to move
at the exact time the moment requires?
Lord who holds death and life equally in your hands,
I stand in your presence today and give you my praise.
You are a bull, and greatly to be praised,
worthy of sacrifice, Lord of life and death.
You are a ram, and greatly to be praised,
worthy of sacrifice, Lord of life and death.
You are a stallion, and greatly to be praised,
worthy of sacrifice, Lord of life and death.
You are a boar, and greatly to be praised,
worthy of sacrifice, Lord of life and death.
You who are the sacrifice,
You who are the sacrificer,
You who are the Lord of life and death:
Worthy are you, greatly to be praised.3
You are the hunter.
You are the hunted.
You are the killer.
You are the killed.
Forever going away,
forever coming back,
completing the circle
of life and death.
He is a bull in the field of the gods,
ruling the herd:
worthy of worship, worthy of praise.
He is a stag in the forest of the Spirits,
ruling the wilds:
worthy of worship, worthy of praise.
He is a king in the city of the Ancestors,
ruling the world:
worthy of worship, worthy of praise.
The Lord of forests is the Lord of the city,
king of gods, Spirits, and Ancestors,
king of people in this world and the next:
worthy of worship, worthy of praise.
Hoof and horn and antler tine
Roaring bull and stag divine
Spreading oak and towering pine
Filling bread, inspiring wine:
Praise, and praise, and praise be thine!
Wonder and awe, as I sit in your presence,
you who sit in the gateway,
in this world and in the other,
mediating the power that shines through,
letting pass what I need, and what I can use,
holding back in mercy what I cannot.
Seen against the brightness, your dark silhouette
is still and sharp and clear.
Sitting fiercely, with perfect intent,
pure in your purpose, source of terror and comfort.
A roaring fire, you sit in my heart’s center.
A rampaging bull, you tear through my soul.
A searing bolt, you cut through my life.
A skirring arrow, you slice me in two.
A standing stone, you are my anchor.
A tall-standing oak is our God,
supporting the worlds on his limbs,
each world ordered according to the spreading of his branches.
Into each world, his twigs extend,
bearing the leaves and acorns that are our lives.
From what source is this tree nourished?
Where do its roots extend?
Deep within the void they reach
and are fed there from the substance of the Goddess.
He makes known her will, giving it form,
from which we might know it and live according to its pattern.
Shaper and essence, open my eyes, open my ears, open my heart,
that I might perceive the sacred pattern and conform my life to it.4
You who wear the antlers:
both beast and man.
You accompanied by stag and dog:
both wild and tame.
You who sit upon the threshold:
both in and out.
You who are the Lord of the in-between:
to you I pray.
Lord of the Shining Sky
who sees all we do.
We praise you.
We sing to you.
We offer to you.
The one who stands high
is worthy of praise.
The one who stands straight
is worthy of praise.
The one who stands stiffly
is worthy of praise.
Mystic Phallus, the Moving One
Mystic Phallus, the Shining One
Mystic Phallus, the Shattering One
Who opens all doors
Who breaks all locks.
Wheels turn
and the seasons turn
and the earth turns
and the stars turn.
The universe turns
and I turn with it.
Queen of the turning,
my face turns toward you in wonder.
She is great and not to be held
because it is her arms that hold.
She is ever-present and not to be seen
because there is nothing to compare her to.
Ride across the plains
Climb the mountains
and you climb her breasts.
Go into the ocean
and you are in her very womb.
Mystic Yoni, not to be held.
Mystic Yoni, not to be seen.
Mystic Yoni, only to be loved.
Mystic Yoni, Gift-Giver.
Mystic Yoni, Birth-Giver.
I can’t really forget you because my life is your living.
If I seem to not remember,
know that that’s just my mind and not my heart.
You are She, the One without beginning.
You are the Mother of All, Who gives birth to the world.
You are the Essence, from Whom all things are formed:
Wherever we may look, You will be there.
You are She of many names:
When Your true face is known, all naming ceases.
In Your presence all stop in wonder:
All life is a prayer to you.
Are you not in this day, in the light and the dark?
Are you not in this month, in the growing and the decrease?
Are you not in this year, in the warmth and the cold?
Are you not in all these things to which you have given birth?
Are you not in all your children, one of whom stands here speaking words of praise?
Too much everything,
too much owned and done,
too much required of me, owed by me,
has driven me to the presence of the Goddess,
where there is never too much.
She is the one who is Lady of all,
and she is the one of whom I would speak,
the one who gives birth and the one who brings death,
beginning and end of the course of our lives.
You are the cauldron of wisdom,
from which inspiration flows.
You are the broad Earth,
that gives birth to all life.
You are the circling Moon,
ruling the tides of oceans and women.
You are the endless night sky,
filled with numberless stars.
You are a grove of birch trees,
shining in the forest deeps.
You are the Mother of us all,
and we look to you in wonder and awe.
In the dark night sky,
the stars are shining
jewels on the body
of the goddess of night.
She walked the path that descends to death;
herself still living, she braved the journey
and brought rebirth to those beyond hope
dwelling in the coldest regions,
living in the halls of Earth.
Facing Death boldly, she led him to love
and taught him the secrets that only she knew.
It was her great courage that taught us to dare
and her example that we should follow
in the heart of trouble that may beset us.5
I speak of she who is beyond comparison,
the greatest of mothers
who gave birth to all wonders.
To us, you are Mother,
and to everything else.
The Mother of friends and the Mother of foes,
you do not distinguish between your children,
but spread your love freely
without judgment or preference.
Here in the center of the turmoil of the city,
I turn my thoughts to her.
Beneath the buildings, deep beneath them,
lies the Earth that is our Mother,
the very body of the Goddess.
She cannot be hidden;
wherever life is found, there she is.
Great Lady, keep me mindful of you
as I walk through the city.
I raise my voice in praise of the Goddess,
remembering the great things she has done:
they are worth reciting.
She is the one from whose fertile womb everything we see was born.
They came out from her, ready to be ordered.
Not only in the old time did she do this wonder, though:
every day is born from between those miraculous thighs.
Each moment, each event, is continually born from her.
Is this not a miracle?
Is this not worthy of praise?
As continually as you give rise to the world,
just as continually will I praise you.
Space was born from you in the time before time,
and time itself, and death.
The Dying One was born,
leaping fully armed from your womb,
rising up to order the world.
The waters poured out, to be placed in their proper locations,
and solid ground was born, to support their weight,
to be the cup of their encircling border.
The directions were placed, each where it belonged.
And life itself was born, the unpredictable,
always yet going where it belongs.
Last of all, and most unpredictable,
your youngest children, we were born,
not always knowing where we belong.
And now I wish to praise the Mother,
who made these things to be,
the source of existence, granter of life.
You to whom we all belong,
you who know the way we should go,
I praise you with my words,
I hold you in my heart.
She it is who puts the prayers in my mouth,
and she to whom I speak them.
They come from her, arise in me,
so that my praying is a part of her eternal cycle;
and when I pray, I take the part she has laid out for me.
When I pray, it is her words I pray;
when I sing, it is her song;
when I act, it is her deeds I do.
I cannot step outside the way she has laid out,
for there is nowhere outside to step.
Ground of being, you contain all within you,
both that which acts and that which is acted upon.
Nowhere is there anything that does not arise in you.
Nothing is there that does not praise you by its existence.
I send out words in praise of the Goddess,
from whom all worlds flow.
Mystery of mysteries, this continual creation,
like a fountain forever bubbling up from the Earth’s darkness,
she is a cup that is never empty.
Generous One, eternally giving gifts,
I pray to you, I praise you,
I remember you throughout my day.
Goddess of growing things,
of warm and moist earth,
of soil-piercing shoots:
praised in all lands,
praised through all ages,
praised by all peoples,
praised with rites of life.
Mother of All Tribes,
of men and women both,
of beasts and plants and people:
praised in all lands,
praised through all ages,
praised by all peoples,
praised with rites of life.
Queen of all countries,
of crafts and industry,
of poets and of priests:
praised in all lands,
praised through all ages,
praised by all peoples,
praised with rites of life.
A lioness protecting her young,
you rage when aroused.
Nothing stands before you,
no troubles can resist you,
no enemies defeat you.
A roaring in the distance announces your arrival,
scattering the dealers of cares.
You shake the Earth beneath their feet,
upsetting all their plans.
Wheat for you, Mother of Grain.
Barley for you, Mother of Grain.
Maize for you, Mother of Grain.
I scatter them for you, Mother of Grain:
a tribute to your well-famed generosity.
I praise every god in my daily prayers,
leaving not a single one out.
The universe does not exclude any of them, so how can I?
Praise, praise, to the infinite number of Blessed Ones.
Praise, praise, let there be praise of them all.
[This makes a good prayer for the beginning or the end of the day.]
If I try, All-Gods, can I understand one of you?
No chance.
Understand two of you?
Calculations can’t even begin.
Understand all of you?
A better chance, since my understanding
collapses in the effort, and you pour into the gaps,
filling me with you, who understand yourself completely.
Maybe even then I can’t say that I understand you,
but at least I’m where the understanding is going on.
Beyond all imagining is the glory of the gods.
Beyond all imagining is the power of the gods.
Beyond all imagining is the being of the gods.
So I stand here and imagine the best I can.
If at any time in my prayers I have omitted any of you,
I pour out these words,
All the gods who are.
Fill it as I might with statues, All-Gods,
my shrine could never contain images of every one of you.
That would take a shrine the size of a universe.
But isn’t that what this universe is?
I’d planned to ask you something,
but now that you’re here—
When I try to understand you, I have to wonder if it is even possible; the mortal knowing the immortal, the small containing the large. I know, though, that that’s not actually your wish. I don’t think you completely understand me either, and want only to stand in relationship to me. I’ll try to please you, and seek uncomprehending friendship, All-Gods.
Infinite in number,
Mind-boggling to conceive:
Only a few of you enter my life
and for that I am glad.
As each comes to me I will do them honor
as the Order impels.
Here in this world
There in the air
There above the sky
Agni burns as priest.
Fire is born from waters,
who lovingly enclose him,
feeding him like butter.
[With an offering of ghee]
The shining rivers flow for Agni.
Three streams of gold feed him.
Fed, he bears on his back our words
and, rising, brings them to the gods.
First of the gods, rightly given the first,
he carries them into the highest of heavens.
If man and woman come together in marriage,
be pleased, Airyaman.
If those who suffer are brought to healing,
be pleased, Airyaman.
be pleased, Airyaman.
By rightful order,
be pleased, Airyaman.
Amaterasu-ōmikami, through purifying myself
I am polishing your mirror.
Amaterasu-ōmikami, through praying to you
I am polishing your mirror.
Amaterasu-ōmikami, through dancing gracefully before you
I am polishing your mirror.
Amaterasu-ōmikami, through acting with beauty
I am polishing your mirror.
For you are the beautiful maiden who shines, pure,
in the day sky,
in which your mirror shines.
Apā
Napāt, shining like gold in the depths of the sea,
like your maidens I would protect you,
keeping clear your light.
And so I pour out water before you,
I pour out ghee on your fire,
to enliven and brighten you,
to quench your thirst and your hunger.
And for those who surround you with their dancing, power these
balls of rice,
that they might better mother you.
Child of the Waters,
with these gifts to you and yours I come before you.
Hear my praise, worthy one!
See her, rising from the foam,
stepping onto land at the ocean’s edge,
most beautiful of all that live in both,
and more beautiful than all in the land above:
Aphrodite, goddess of beauty and love.
I pray to the one whose arrows bring health and illness,
to Apollo the beautiful one.
From your lyre come tunes of harmonious enchantment,
and I listen enraptured,
sweet-singing Apollo.
When your arrows pierce my soul, Straight Shooter,
may it be only to kill any falsehoods there.
Your music is true, Apollo.
Artio, lady of bears,
you dwell not in the wild but in the city,
protecting it from outside dangers,
from those who would come as ravening beasts.
You both love and ward off the great animals who
might come to us as bears,
strong and dangerous.
But you are the strongest of all,
and ready to aid.
Brigid who burns on my hearth:
Brigid who burns in my head,
you bring me inspiration,
Brigid who burns on my hearth.
you bring me healing,
Brigid who burns on my hearth.
Brigid who burns in my hands,
you bring me talent,
Brigid who burns on my hearth.
You bring the burning that gives life.
With one hand she blesses, with the other she proffers grain,
feeding spirit and body of those who pray to her,
Need-provider, Ceres the Grower.
You sit between, Wearer of Antlers,
between the shining one
and the one who leads us into the dark;
between the one that hunts, friend of men,
and the one who is hunted, the best of prey;
even you are between animal and man.
I praise the great between, where power is found,
I praise you, Cernunnos, liminal lord.
Your patience is infinite as you sit in calm:
you don’t move, though everyone else does—
It is through your stillness that you are everywhere.
Both beast and god,
and neither,
you sit, Cernunnos,
stately,
the door to the Otherworld,
opening,
to those who pray here.
He’s laughing at me.
No sound escapes from his mouth,
his eyes don’t dance,
and his body is still
(so still).
But have no doubt—he is laughing.
I’m sorry I’m not as perfect as you, Cernunnos,
moving without action or changing,
being, in fact, the fate that allows or denies all change.
But I promise I’ll sit with you,
until someday we will laugh together.
Although still at me.
Prodigious, pot-bellied, pot-emptying god,
Good god, thunder-club armed,
bumptious, bumbling, bumpkin god,
most noble of gods, most noble and best.
Mighty in fertilities,
Mighty in cities:
Great is Diana of Ephesus!
She who stands strong,
She who is the Crowned One:
Great is Diana of Ephesus!
Great is she,
worthy of my praises:
Great is she, Diana of Ephesus!
Great is Diana of Ephesus!
Dievas has come down from his mountaintop home.
Have you seen him?
Keep your eyes open—the next traveler you meet might be him,
hiding his royal garb beneath an everyday coat.
The next stranger you meet might be him,
hiding his divinity beneath a human appearance.
The god of fate, establishing order, may be right in front of you,
hidden from those who look only at the surface.
Pay attention!
The divine is all around.
You are the keeper and establisher of law, Dievas,
of order in the cosmos and among your people,
ordering the world as Fate requires.
Though some say you are old,
and, indeed, you are the first among the gods,
it is with the power of youth that you draw your great sword
to enforce your will,
which is just.
US PTRI stand under the bright sky, shining, clear,
blue, and empty of all except itself,
and praise the Sky Father,
the Shining Sky Father,
Lord of Cosmic Law, enforcer of justice:
you see all that is done;
may my deeds be true.
I will stand only a moment before my shrine to bow to your image,
and then I will go outside and place my hands on your very self,
a loving caress.
Each step a child’s caress.
A friend who is filled with the force of life.
A god who is great with the sweetest grace.
A lord who is laughing with love’s strong might.
A Healer is Freyr who makes things whole.
And he is the one with wonderful gifts
holding my health with a hand that is strong.
Your outstretched enfolding arms offer cattle,
pour out rich milk,
that we might, like children, grow in prosperity.
Leading cows you come to your worshipers,
who, pouring golden butter, come to you.
Not content, Son of Nine Mothers,
with standing as warder for the land of the gods,
you stand in opposition to the father of the Wolf,
the engenderer of the Midgard Serpent,
whom you will slay at Ragnarok, though falling yourself.
A son of a giantess, you opposed, and will oppose,
that friend of giants who comes sailing against the world.
Sprung from the Vanir, you live on the edge of the world of the Aesir,
your ears, ever sharp, are constantly on guard, pure god, white god, protector of the divine,
ever-awake watchful one.
You, like Odin, Father of Men, and your father, too, who possesses the wisdom of runes,
give birth to the races of your children, mankind,
and taught them the runes, that we might be wise,
while seeing yourself that which will come.
Even Thor, the greatest of champions, is awoken to war by your warning.
Truly you are a great divine one,
truly a god high and wise,
who well deserves these words of praise,
and this golden mead, like your golden horse.
Herald of the gods, with herald’s staff proceeding,
you who are trusted with the messages of the wisest of immortals,
you are a teacher of those who seek the mysteries,
setting their feet on the way.
In worship I speak these words.
You devised the lyre,
then lightly gave it up,
a peace offering to the god you had wronged.
A little thing for you,
a moment’s work,
but the perfect gift for the music god
who sets each in its place,
in proper order,
so that he might restore the order you had violated with your thieving raid.
You created the occasion, and the means for overcoming it:
a wonderful god who can conceive his own overcoming
and then overcome that!
Clever god, with clever mind and hands,
I praise your insight and creativity:
the right thing for the moment is what you bring,
a surprising talent in a god of thieves.
Herne, your antlers fill the sky,
shading out the stars that shine there,
bringing in the darkness your own kind of light,
the light of mysteries, the light that only you can bring,
in your night.
Though no widow, I praise you, Hestia,
with the pure scent of this incense
I’m burning for you.
The desert burns with heat:
it is your heat, Horus.
The wind that blows through it is your breath,
carrying the voice that makes your will known.
Piercing rays falling from the Sun,
from your eye, Horus.
You destroy Set, destroy Apophis,
destroy the enemies of all that love life.
We pray to you not just for doing this, however,
but in honor of your presence,
brightest of the gods.
she is the great Inanna.
The victor over enemies in war,
It is she, Inanna;
she is the great Inanna.
The victor over barriers to love,
It is she, Inanna;
she is the great Inanna.
The victor over all that opposes us,
It is she, Inanna;
she is the great Inanna.
With a cast of the vajra you killed the serpent Vtra and the waters erupted, lowing with pleasure.
The six-eyed armless one lay prostrate after you did this, O Indra.
A soma draught intoxicates you,
you burn with divine flame when you ride forth, O Indra,
when you ride against demons,
and all your enemies tremble.
When Indra, mad with soma,
hunted Vtra,
his weapon, many-pointed, copper-red, flashing,
pierced the limbless one,
set free the cows;
the water gushed out,
the earth grew green.
To Indra these words, Mighty Lord,
of praise.
Seeing her bow across the sky after the rain,
I praise lovely Iris.
Mother, Wife, Mourner, Magician;
Sistrum-Rattler, Revenge-Director,
Ecstasy-Inducer, Love-Inspirer:
Isis.
With flashing spear,
which travels with eye-blink speed from clouds above,
you strike the earth, Lug,
showing your great power.
With well-cast stone, hurled from your sling,
you put out the baleful eye,
that destroyed all on which it looked.
Gathering gods together,
and goddesses, too,
you formed them together into a formidable army
to set against the enemy.
Long-armed one of many skills,
Great are you, to whom I speak these words.
Who is it whom we see?
We see a man with silver hair, with silver beard, flecked
with salt foam.
We see a man in a cloak of no colors, or is it of every color?
When it moves, it hides and reveals; sometimes things show through it,
sometimes they ripple as if on their surface,
sometimes they fade softly at their edges, as if imprinted on fog.
We see a man holding an apple branch:
its fruit is golden, and rings like bells when he shakes it.
And its golden-toned music soothes us, would sing us to sleep if we
listened to it for long.
But he shakes the branch and the apples sound just until we hear it,
and leaves an ache in our hearts when its echoes fade.
We see a man who drives a chariot without reins.
His horses ride sure-footed, wave-maned across the sea,
which seems a flowered plain beneath the turning, diamond-flashing wheels.
We see a man who is alternately too bright for our eyes to bear,
and then compassionate in his gaze.
We see this man. Whom is it we see? That’s easy—we see Manannán, a guide to those on journeys,
who shows the way where there are no tracks;
We see a comforter who smooths away memories that rot the heart.
We see Manannán mac Lir,
Comforter and Guide,
Son of the Sea.
You, coming across the waters with unwet chariot,
are right to be praised, Manannán mac Lir.
You, casting a spell of forgetful news with your fog-cloak,
are right to be praised, Manannán mac Lir.
You, grasping a cup of truth, detector of lies,
are right to be praised, Manannán mac Lir.
For all these things,
for all you have done,
for all that you will do to those who look to you,
it is right to praise you, Manannán mac Lir.
and that is what I do with this prayer.
Smasher of cities, who slew Kingu and Tiamat
with his mighty club, with his storm mace,
Marduk I praise.
Overcomer of chaos, Ordainer of cosmos,
Marduk I praise.
Blessed by those who live in the city when they expect protection,
and by those on the farms when they ask that the crops prosper,
Marduk I praise.
You who were raised to the kingship by the gods by right of
your power,
who rule over gods and men,
who bring blessings to those who worship you,
and withhold them from those who do not acknowledge you:
Marduk, you I praise.
Marduk is the one who rules the earth;
Marduk is the one who rules the land.
With strong legs he strides across,
with great arms he wields his mace,
with clear mind he rules in wisdom,
with farsighted eyes he sees all things,
with golden mouth he speaks the truth,
with perfect justice he declares the right.
Marduk is the one who is the greatest of lords,
Marduk is he of whom I speak,
Marduk is he who receives my praise.
NŌTMeasuring and measuring again,
checking your math over and over,
your reckoning always right,
but you faithfully measuring out the next.
When I doubt,
and check my calculations for precision,
I am worshiping you, who expect no more from me
and no less.
Straight
True
Right
Well-formed and measured.
Clear
Pure
are you, M
nōt.
Clever Mercurius:
God of commerce, God of prosperity,
God of wisdom, god of travel,
Guide of souls:
I offer you my worship.
With quickest feet you make your way,
Mercury, herald of the gods,
bringing their wisdom to the mortal realm.
From an inexhaustible purse you pour out wealth
on those in need when they turn to you.
Over those on journeys you watch, a protector,
bringing them safely home.
Mercury, holy one, who makes distances small,
I send these words across the gulf between my world and yours.
Mercury and Rosmerta,
you both provide;
one through trade,
one through growth;
both bring prosperity
to those who worship them.
Praise to you, with open hands!
Praise to you, with open hands!
AMitravaru
a,
without you how would we know the Law?
How would we know the Truth?
How would we know the Right?
Without you there would be no way to live in the world,
or for each to live with all.
For you are the ruler of Law
without which nothing can be true.
It is through you that everything is joined together
to form this beautiful world.
It’s sweet to rest in the night under the Moon,
a queen surrounded by her handmaiden stars,
who empties her store of love over my head,
white light, silver light, warm light:
this is her gift to me and to all who look toward her.
You are in the sky above me, and you are in my heart.
Each day of your cycle you rise at a different time,
with a different appearance, Moon,
yet each time at just the right moment
and in the right shape.
You are faithful in changing circumstances
and so I know I can depend on you.
Exactly how many eyes do you have, Night?
I keep counting them,
and each time I come up with a different number.
However many there are,
when they look down may they find me acting virtuously.
Or if they don’t, I hope that, seeing what other people do,
you’ll understand.
I lose myself in the wonder of your infinite blackness,
and, pierced by the light of your unnumbered stars,
rest in the confidence of your mercy.
It is only in the Void that you are found,
manifest in the Nothingness,
the blackness between the stars:
You are seen in their sparkles.
I look up into your star-bedecked darkness, Nuit,
and am enfolded by Nothing.
I would ask you for gifts,
but what would you send then?
I ask for Nothing,
the greatest gift of all.
If I wanted to do something really stupid,
would you stop me, Ogma?
Of course not;
your job is to advise and inspire, not control.
Thanks.
Io Pan, the shout in the hills,
Io Pan, the hooves on the rocks,
Io Pan, the song in the wild:
Io Pan, Io Pan.
Io Pan, the scattering of the flocks,
Io Pan, the singing of the pipes,
Io Pan, the roaring in the fields:
Io Pan, Io Pan.
Io Pan, the goat,
Io Pan, the man,
Io Pan, the god:
Io Pan, Io Pan.
Great Pan, you have not died,
but live always among those who call you,
with prayers, with songs,
with dance and the beaten drum,
we call you,
we worship you,
we celebrate you,
Great Pan, undying.
Even Zeus the Father follows your decisions
when he nods his head “yes,”
or shakes it, disapproving
when he sits in judgment.
Parcae, Fates,
Spinner, Measurer, Cutter of the thread of life,
though your decisions may not please me
they are what is right,
allowed even by the King of the gods,
who knows them truly.
An old woman or a young one,
but whenever I see you, you are burning as flowing magma.
Hair’s tresses that when cool and hard still burn inside,
forming these islands,
are yours, Pele, clearly so.
Whether I see you sitting on the edge of the road,
or in my room,
or even just in my imagination,
I will give you leis,
which aren’t as beautiful as you.
Your hair, the twisting ropes of lava;
your eyes, its glow;
your body, the island cooled from the volcano’s seething:
how could I not worship you, Pele,
how could I not see how you deserve praise?
The lava glow in the distance
tells me you are here, Pele,
mother of islands.
As I walk across the ground you form I think of you.
Far-famed defender of those who suffer,
archer, whose flaming arrows strike the ground in spring
and awaken it to life
impregnating it with your shining essence:
you defeat the evil ones
who threaten your worshipers.
You shine from the dark clouds when they cover the sky.
You come with rain.
NOSMy voice might not be as loud as yours,
but it comes from my essential being, too.
May it rise through the crash of clouds and into your ears, Perk
nos,
you who obliterate all that stands in your way.
May I be filled with the booming brightness you hurl and not by my fears.
May my body tremble with the strength of your arms and not my weaknesses.
May all I do be with your unfailing accuracy and your power that cannot be withstood.
The desert burns with heat:
it is your heat, Re-Horakhty.
The wind that blows is your breath,
carrying the voice that makes your will known.
Piercing rays falling from the Sun,
from your eye, Re-Horakhty.
Destroy Set, destroy Apep,
destroy the enemies of all that love life.
We pray to you not just for doing this, however,
but in honor of your presence,
brightest of the gods.
Your sitar’s tune carries me away,
flowing.
It weaves together the universe in beauty
that is yours.
Your fingers dancing on the strings
speak of truth.
Sarasvati, you enliven all with your song.
In the space between high and low tide,
I build a shrine for you, deity of the sea,
from stone and shell, and seabird’s feather,
a beautiful gift to your beautiful self.
Take it when you come,
when your waves rise upon the shore,
absorb my gift into my body,
and be praised and strengthened by what I have created.
Silvanus of the woods
is Silvanus of the fields,
protecting each one constantly,
guarding all our lands faithfully.
Ruling the storm, he comes in the night,
loosing his axe again and again.
The Bull of Storms comes bellowing,
scattering seed over the Earth.
A wild beast is he, spreading fire and water as he rampages.
In his wake he will leave fertile ground.6
After the destruction of your thunderbolt, the rains come, and the fields grow green.
Too often I pray for your demolition of obstacles,
and too rarely for a good to replace them.
Even as I pray to you for your raw power,
use it to remove, as well, this weakness of mine that separates:
the end from the beginning,
destruction from creation,
your fire from the life-giving water that cools and feeds the earth as you pass by.
With a right arm strong enough to cleave universes,
he slew the serpent who thought he could destroy the cosmos.
And every day with steadfast dedication to the right cause
he renews the battle against disorder with his aim never swerving from true.
Axe-Wielder and Bright-Striker:
did you hear me telling your story?
If I look too long with unshielded eyes,
they, cut right through by your penetrating spears,
will burn into blindness, will bring me to dark,
a fate undesired by me, and by you.
Your pride in your might deserves to be known,
which never with unseeing eyes would it be.
Even not looking, then, is worship of you.
Know this, then: averting my eyes, I still praise;
I honor with words, though perhaps not my gaze.
Now in the sky is the highest flying of eagles
He with the eye looks down on us.
See, there he is,
Giver of light.
See, there he is,
Giver of warmth.
Who can hide from his bright spear?
Who can hide from his sharp arrows?
They find prey
They find both eater and eaten.
He sees the one who walks on the road
May it be his road we walk on.
Bright One
Blazing One
Flaming One
Shining One
Burning One
Hot One
Revealer of Truth
Shower of the Road
Nothing is seen without your light
but you cannot be seen.
Truth burns our eyes.
We are not strong enough to see it.
We walk it instead.
The straight road leads to you.
The eagle of the Sun rises high
with the burning ball in his claws.
He can see us here.
No one can hide.
When the Sun is high
dishonesty hides away.
No evil can stand the great light.
Secrets are done by the Moon
but the Sun makes everything clear.
Shine your rays, your beams, your light,
on all who need your light, your warmth, your presence.
All that lives requires your brightness,
and all that speak owe you their praises:
Sun, who looks on the world below, I honor you today.
The earth turns its circles with you as its midpoint,
you are at the center of our system of planets, moons, asteroids, comets;
your well of gravity holds each in its moving place:
you are the one who gives order to your dependents.
You do all these things, for you are great, Earth’s star.
Whether god or nuclear furnace, you deserve these words of praise.
Brightest bull, Taranis;
wheel wielder, Taranis;
soil soaker, Taranis;
serpent slayer, Taranis.
With ruddy beard and unwithstandable crashing hammer,
you wage unceasing battle against giants and serpents,
all of whom fall before you, Thor; even the greatest snake of all,
the World-Encircling Serpent, your oldest enemy,
will know your hammer bringing it to death in the end.
Yet such immense and divine power,
which someone like you could easily wield against anyone
according to your whim,
which streams in you as if it were blood, suffusing every cell
of your divine body,
urging you on to battle,
that most, gods and men, giants and dwarves,
would be unable to rein in;
you can control it, Thunderer.
You take the side of the common folk against everyone who tries
to oppress them.
How easy it would be for you to be an oppressor yourself, Thor!
But your brusque facade hides a noble heart,
and so you know true nobility when you see it,
nobility not of blood, but of deeds and honor.
For fighting on the side of true order I praise Thor!
The irresistible weapon, the vajra,
you formed with your maya,
for the greatest of heroes, Indra.
Although it brought death to you at his hands,
still you live,
granting skill to all who pray to you,
which is what I do today.
Týr, I thank you for your sacrifice,
a hand given to sustain the world,
even though you knew it would only be for a while.
Help me to make sure I don’t waste a single precious day
for which you gave such a precious gift:
not just your hand,
but the oath that you swore with it,
your honor, your truth.
Putting your head in the mouth of the wolf,
you swore a false oath, god of oaths.
And the jaws closed,
and severed the hand with which you had sworn.
You offered falsehood to save the true,
forestalling the end of the world:
worth the cost.
I praise your sacrifice, just Týr,
and I praise you who made it.
ASA maiden with spread-out fingers,
Uas rising,
her blessing fingers,
Uas smiling;
A maiden baring her breasts,
Uas rising,
her rosy breasts,
Uas dancing;
A maiden in the east,
Uas, praise!
Though I live in the light, I praise you Veles,
you, in your dark cave.
Yet, from it you send cattle, children of earth,
and so even those who live apart from you praise you,
as I do today.
Velnias, how welcome you are when you walk among your people!
How great is your help and how thankful we are to you!
Builder of great works for us, we marvel at your power!
Even though we draw away from you in fear when darkness overwhelms you,
and threatens to encompass us,
yet we praise you whose power is as great to bless as it is to harm.
UWith one step he measured out the earth:
He is Vi
u, great in creation.
With one step he measured out the air:
He is Viu, great in creation.
With one step he measured out the sky:
He is Viu, great in creation.
With three steps he measured out the three worlds:
He is Viu, great in creation.
Greatest smith Weyland,
through your skill you, though imprisoned, won freedom,
your hammer, your anvil victorious,
leaving destruction behind.
It is the power of your creativity I praise today, not your revenge;
your power to bring into being,
not that to bring death,
for it is powerful and beautiful enough to cause awe and deserve honor.
And it is for that that I speak, that you may know of my respect
for your power,
and your ability to bring into being things useful and lovely.
As if shaken from the fingers of my upraised hands my words scatter
on the wind blowing across oceans, through the branches of trees,
across long extending steppes,
at last to me, who can feel their touch,
and who sends them on their way again,
more beautiful, I hope, for my song.
Unkindled water,
hot blood flowing,
twin horses, shining:
he rides within.
Praise to the Land Spirits
who watch over these woods,
their beautiful home;
praise and these bright stones:
a beautiful gift for the beautiful ones.
Each drop of wind-blown salt spray is a Spirit of the ocean,
among whom I pray,
and to whom I pray.
Crossed by a bridge, your waters are still as sacred
as when our ancestors slogged across them at fords.
Perhaps more sacred, since they are undefiled by our muddy stirrings.
Although held aloft, I am still connected,
and still honor you, River Spirit.
Hey, I recognize you, rock.
Do you know me?
I’m the one who says “Hi” to you when I see you.
We can be good friends, you and I.
I’ll say “Hi” next time I see you.
This is small, but it has its Spirit, which I honor.
If I could slide between the raindrops, why would I want to?
Why avoid the purifying water that runs over me, carrying untruth away?
Do you know, Water Spirits, that you do this?
Not just feeding the earth but supporting truth?
I wouldn’t avoid truth, so I don’t avoid you.
3 Although Wicca does not practice literal sacrifice, it does have a sacrificial theology. The God is not only the lord of all life; he is also the one who dies with the year, who is cut down in the fall, to reign in the Otherworld as Lord of Death. As such, he is the first sacrifice. The line “worthy of sacrifice” is thus, as I said earlier, ambiguous, meaning both “worthy to receive sacrifice” and “worthy to be offered in sacrifice.” The animals with which he is identified in this prayer are the four animals assigned by the Indo-Europeans to the four directions, starting in the east with the bull and moving clockwise. They were also the animals most desirous as sacrificial offerings. This prayer may also be used as a litany.
4 The cosmos envisioned in this prayer is similar to that of Norse tradition, with the cosmic tree at the center of the universe fed from the well of Mimir at its feet. I have changed the Norse ash to an oak because I prefer oak, but the other differences are a result of the duotheism of Wicca. The well becomes the Goddess herself, but its role, both as the source of the tree’s nourishment and the pattern it gives to existence (its wyrd), has not been changed. This prayer could equally well have been placed in the chapter on petitionary prayers, but the majority of it is praise, so I have included it here.
5 This prayer refers to the legend of the descent of the Goddess in Gardnerian Wicca, in which the Goddess goes to the land of the dead and confronts the god of the dead. She then becomes queen of that land and brings rebirth to its inhabitants. This prayer is especially appropriate for times of despair. It could, for instance, be recited at a funeral. The Goddess brought rebirth to the spirits in the Otherworld; she will bring it to us. She, herself, went through darkness; she will bring us through it as well.
6 This prayer to the god of storms contains imagery from several traditions. There is Mj
lnir, the axe of Thor (“thunder”), that returns to his hand when it is thrown so he can throw it again. I’ve included several aspects of the Vedic Indra: the bull scattering seed (rain), the combination of fire and water (lightning and rain), and the description of this god as a wild beast. The prayer may be used for any storm god, however, such as the Canaanite Ba’al (“Lord”) or Gaulish Taranis (“Thunder”). The last line reflects the old belief that the spring’s thunderstorms fertilize the fields. This prayer may, therefore, be used as a prayer for rain in spring.