In simple, suffering love
a man looks down, on all the world
as empathetic tears drench cheeks that child-like,
once had filled with laughter.
The shadows lengthen,
heighten the beam’s intersection,
as muscles, taut with strain crack, as a whip,
and feel the course of pain.
Finished? Is it finished?
But still the thunder grumbles
and lightning slashes dark and cloud.
A drift of rain disperses yet a diminishing crowd.
© Andrew Pratt 2024
Here on the crest of the wave of creation
Here on the crest of the wave of creation,
roaring and rolling beyond time and place;
God is transforming through quiet resurrection,
challenging hopelessness, offering grace.
Now we will follow the steps that will lead us
on through the horrors and hatred of life,
on through the angst ridden pain of bereavement,
on through the cross to the ending of strife.
Here at faith's edge where our peace is beginning,
God soaring free through our chaos and pain,
here is the meaning of loving and living,
here is the place of our rising again.
Andrew Pratt (born 1948)
Words © 2008 Stainer & Bell Ltd, London, England copyright@stainer.co.uk .
Please include any reproduction for local church use on your CCL
Licence returns. All wider and any commercial use requires prior
application to Stainer & Bell Ltd
Metre: 11 10 11 10
Tune: EPIPHANY HYMN
Watercolour and Luminar © Andrew Pratt
Good Friday - Mid laughter and derision
Mid laughter and derision,
with mocking, mournful cry,
see evil's quiet corruption,
as people wander by.
All dignity is fading,
and life will ebb away,
the Christ is hung on Friday,
the powers have had their say.
The women still stand watching,
the men in fear have gone,
the sky is cut with darkness,
the sun will not shine on.
In childlike resignation
the Christ gives up his last,
indignity is finished,
his suffering is past.
A soldier still stands silent,
then falling to his knees,
in quiet acclamation,
adores the Christ he sees.
While Mary leaves unnoticed,
a broken, crippled soul,
the shadows hide her anguish,
her grief will take control.
We sing the story sadly,
we act the story well,
but now we leave forgetting
the truths it has to tell.
God give us sense to grapple
with powers that would defame
the Christ in one another,
the hope we long to name.
Andrew Pratt (born 1948)
Words © 2010 Stainer & Bell Ltd, London, England copyright@stainer.co.uk .
Please include any reproduction for local church use on your CCL
Licence returns. All wider and any commercial use requires prior
application to Stainer & Bell Ltd
Metre:7 6 7 6 7 6 7 6
Tune: THORNBURY
iPad © Andrew Pratt
On Maundy Thursday copyright Andrew Pratt 2024
When Jesus came to Bethlehem there was no harsh a day,
they say a census had been called, there was no place to stay;
this baby who would shake the world, would first lay down his head,
not in a royal house or hall, but in a manger bed.
When Jesus went to Nazareth his father had a trade,
a carpenter now had a son and business plans were laid;
but soon within the temple courts, this lad would have his way,
dissenting from his parents' wish, they'd looked for him all day.
The path that he set out to tread from Jordan's crowded bank
would take him him through a wilderness with neither power nor rank;
returning he would scourge the ones and verbally deride
a viper's brood, these hypocrites, who dressed themselves in pride.
Returning to Jerusalem, but not in regal dress,
he's seated on a donkey's back, not here to rule or bless;
the temple tables were upturned, but more disturbing still,
his challenge to authority would cause the air to chill.
That chill was in Gethsemane when he knelt down to pray,
and all the pain of all the world seared through him on that day;
the time of crisis had arrived to turn from what was right,
or walk with soldiers on to what now looked like endless night.
The trial came and ones that he had scourged with words scourged him,
and this was brutal vengeance now, not wondrous, simply grim:
his flesh was ripped, his sinews torn, his body hung to dry,
and as the darkness gathered round the whole world seemed to sigh.
That ragged child that Mary bore was taken from the tree,
the women waited through three days, covertly went to see:
they found the tomb was empty now, the one they sought had gone,
and as they raced in fear away, the mystery lingered on.
Yet through two thousand years and more the influence of that man
has rippled down through history from where it first began;
his spirit stills inspires a faith that trusts to what is right,
to seek for truth, to live in love, keep justice burning bright.
Andrew E Pratt (born 1948)
Words © 2015 © Stainer & Bell Ltd, London, England copyright@stainer.co.uk .
Please include any reproduction for local church use on your CCL Licence returns.
All wider and any commercial use requires prior application to Stainer & Bell Ltd.
Metre: 14 14 14 14
Tune: THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER
Written at the request of the Rev’d Dr John Parry
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