God disarm us from the language
God disarm us from the language
that will harm, or dispossess,
that disparages our neighbour
words that hurt, or bring distress.
God bring love instead of hatred,
tear down barriers we have built,
bring your grace among all nations,
takeaway our fear and guilt.
Take us, use us, in this purpose,
so our actions emulate,
all that brings us peaceful living,
not just tools of chance or fate.
Build between us bonds of friendship,
bridges in the place of lies,
till we’re bound with one another:
held by love that none denies.
Andrew E. Pratt (born 1948)
© 2026 Stainer and Bell Ltd., London, England, http://www.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: 8.7.8.7
Tune: SHIPSTON
Tag: guilt
Body Bag, Body Bags
22 years old, dead in a bag.
‘Just down there’ casual words from a ‘reception’ desk.
Cold.
But, then, a mortuary is a chilling place.
‘Chill out’, we say.
Then rows of babies follow where my son has gone.
He departed by train at night.
Limp hands, recognisable like my own.
Cold, lifeless.
An accident.
None to blame.
But these babies, gone before time?
No excuse.
Death by choice, of the vulnerable and truly innocent.
Few are truly innocent.
Time compounds circumstance and reason
to churn us into who we are.
Some curdle, I suppose.
But death at birth has no rhyme or reason.
Don’t multiply your guilt by pointing fingers.
Don’t seek to assuage hell
by washing your hands of your complicity.
Wringing your hands won’t dry the blood of your hypocrisy.
But remember also, neither will it erase the all encompassing love
of the God you claim to worship,
yet who through obscene action you blaspheme at every turn.
Copyright Andrew Pratt 19/11/2023
Black Lives Matter – Professor Anthony Reddie
Three men by a manger – Epiphany
Three men by a manger, the camels are spitting;
the inn keeper proffers a flagon of ale.
The strangers are weary, the passage was dreary,
this ship of the desert, has furled up its sail.
The stars had moved slowly, they’d hoped to be early,
our Christmas had placed them right there at the birth,
but Herod had waited, his anger not sated,
two years rambled slowly till wrath seared the earth.
It all seems a muddle, and yet we will huddle,
repeating the story from long, long ago;
what matters the timing when love sets bells chiming,
and just for this season our time can run slow.
Andrew Pratt 22/12/2019
Words © 2019 Stainer & Bell Ltd, London, England, http://www.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.