Evensong; by Donal Clancy


The high priest raises the chalice.

Our heavenly Father.

He holds it reverentially beneath the spout.

Thy Kingdom come.

With considered deliberation he fills it to the brim.

Thy will be done.

Turning, turning, to raise the angle until the vessel is upright.

Give us this day!

Before him the congregation stands mesmerised by the ceremony.

Lead us on.

Cold Ichor meets the sultry night air and the glass surface sweats

as he lays it on the altar.


As it was in the beginning.

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