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A PRAYER FOR THE GREAT LENT
The desert fathers and the ranks of holy women,
To have their hearts ascend to high celestial spheres,
To strengthen them amid the earthly storms and battles,
A multitude of godly prayers did compose;
But not a one among them do I find as moving,
As that which never-endingly the priest repeats
Throughout the Great Lent’s sad and somber days;
Most frequently it issues from my sinful lips
And fortifies invisibly my fallen spirit:
O Master of my days! Let not into my soul
The spirit of despondent idleness and prattle,
The spirit of that hidden serpent, lust for power;
But grant, O Lord, that I may rather see my sins,
That I withhold from passing judgment on my brother,
And in my heart the spirit of humility,
Of patience, love, and continence do Thou revive.
- A. S. Pushkin
Translated by Natalia Sheniloff
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TO ALL RUSSIAN SAINTS
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Ye who have gone into deep, dark forests,
Taking no sword, but only a cross,
Ye who have built such mighty churches,
Solely by virtue of ardent faith,
Ye the creators of Holy Russia,
Champions strong of its holy truth,
Its intercessors in God’s high kingdom,
Fathers on earth of its Orthodox Church,
Ye who have burned with the fire of purity
All through the narrow and somber ages,
Rise as a wondrously shining banner
Over the sadness of native woods!
Having lost the shrines of our homeland,
We wander in sweat and dust of despair…
Pray for us sinners, o dear holy hierarchs,
O holy saints of the Russian land!
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- Lyubov Glukhova
Translated by Natalia Sheniloff
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| ANGEL |
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At midnight an angel was flying the sky
And quietly singing a song.
The moon, and the stars, and a legion of clouds
Attended that holiest song.
He sang of the bliss of the innocent souls
Sojourning in sweet paradise;
He sang of the greatness of God, and his praise
Was truly unfeigned and sincere.
An infant soul in his embrace he did bear
To a world full of sorrow and tears;
The sound of his song did remain in that soul,
Though wordless, yet very alive.
And later the soul languished long in this world,
Still filled with a wondrous desire,
For earth’s boring songs could not ever replace
The power of heavenly tones.
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- Mikhail Lermontov
Translated by Natalia Sheniloff
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SAINT JOASAPH OF BELGOROD
250th anniversary of repose |
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Wintry night, the moon is shining,
Peacefully the candle flickers,
In the room where lies the hierarch,
Visions quietly are floating:
Childhood in father’s orchards,
Mother’s tenderest caresses,
Sacred, dreamy, golden Kiev,
Deep blue waves of Dniepr River.
Shining youth all full of daydreams,
Innocent elysian visions,
Joy of fasting, tears, repentance,
Sacred feat of midnight prayer.
Far away the Lavra shimmers,
Brightly shine the abbots’ relics,
The monastic choir chanting,
Bells melodically ringing.
Belgorod ’mid cherry orchards,
Radiance of midday’s sunlight,
Heavy hierarchal labors,
Full of sweetness and compassion.
Fervent service, fearless sermons,
Blackest sins’ denunciation,
Words of truth like swords of angels,
Yet forgiving true repentants.
All is quiet in the village,
In the house the candle flickers,
In the lonely forest abode
An old monk is softly weeping.
He has heard a voice from heaven:
“Hark! Thy son is now departing.”
He looked up into the heaven –
A bright ring of stars was forming.
Forty years ago it happened,
He remembered his own vision:
In the sky the Queen of Heaven,
And his son before Her, kneeling.
Flying down from heaven, an angel
Covered the young boy with a mantle,
“I do hear thy prayer, child,”
Said the Mother of God benignly.
Now remembering the vision,
The old monk weeps with abandon,
Quietly he whispers, trembling:
“Gone is our kind intercessor.”
Wintry night, the moon is shining,
Distant stars are palely flickering,
In the sky a holy soul now
To the Lord is gladly flying.
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| Translated by Natalia Sheniloff |
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POEM OF A SOLDIER
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The following poem was found on the body of a Russian soldier killed in one of the fiercest battles with the Germans during World War II.
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Listen, God… for never in my life before
Have I spoken with You, but today
I want to greet You. As You know,
From childhood I was always told
That You do not exist…
And I so stupidly believed it.
I never gazed at your creations, but tonight
I looked out from a crater dug by a grenade
At the starry sky above me; and I understood
Quite suddenly, while marveling at the lights,
How cruel a lie can be.
I don’t know, God, if You will stretch Your hand to me?
But I will tell You and You’ll understand –
Is it not marvelous that amid this fiery hell
I’ve suddenly seen the light of knowing You?
That’s all I have to say. Just one more thing…
I’m glad that I have come to know You.
At midnight we are set for an attack,
Yet I’m not scared: You’re looking down upon us.
The signal… Well, I must be off…
How wonderful to talk to You… And I just want to add
That, as You know, the battle will be fierce,
And so perhaps this very night
I will come knocking on Your door.
And though I have not been Your friend before,
Will you allow me to come in?…
But I am crying... O my God… You see,
My eyes have opened to the light.
Farewell, my God… I’m off… and hardly will return.
How strange… but death now holds no fear for me at all.
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Holy Russia. Picture by M.V. Nesterov. 1905.
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THE LAST ONES
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Who will come last to this world,
The very last torment to bear?
Who’ll go to mass in the morning?
Who will call God in the night?
Who will help his fallen brother?
Who will his enemies love?
Who will forgive without measure,
As a disciple of Christ?
“One in the field’s not a soldier!”
Evil is seething around…
What kind of crown will he merit –
He who shall stand all alone?
Alone, enigmatic to others,
With a holy yearning for God,
Shining in pitch-black darkness,
As though forgotten by Thee…
Remember, O Lord of the universe,
Those who will come after us
To this world doomed for burning,
At the terrible ending of time!
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A.A. Alekseyev, poet-confessor, martyred by the Bolsheviks in 1941.
Translated by Natalia Sheniloff |
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A PRAYER
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Forgive, o Lord, all my transgressions,
My failing spirit in me renew.
Let me endure all tribulations
In hope, and faith, and love of You.
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I’m not afraid to suffer passion.
Of love divine the pledge is pain,
But do allow my soul impassioned
In contrite tears to wash my stain.
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My heart’s observe the poverty
And give it Magdalene’s bright fire.
Give me the Baptist’s purity
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And let me tread my path entire,
Bearing the cross of my decay,
Before the feet of Christ to lay.
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- I. I. Kozlov (1779 -1840)
Translated by Kosara Gavrilovic.
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| GOD’s COMMANDMENTS |
Ye have heard what hath been said by the ancients: thou shalt not kill;
and whosoever shall kill - shall be in danger of judgment.
But I say unto you: in wrath and hate
There is no less ill feeling than in murder.
Remember also that each word you utter
Shall be recorded on the judgment slate.
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Ye have heard what hath been said by the ancients:
thou shalt not commit adultery.
But I say unto you: if you but let
Your unclean eye towards a woman stray,
Uncleanliness will so your soul beset,
You’d wish your hand would pluck your eye away.
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Again, ye have heard what hath been said by the ancients: thou shalt not foreswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thine oaths.
I urge you not to swear at any price,
Not by the earth, nor by God’s throne - the skies.
Let simple yea or nay from you suffice,
Because all else is naught but Satan’s lies.
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Ye have heard that it hath been said:
an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.
But I beg you not increase the wrong.
Make peace with enemies in any way.
Whatever’s done to you, stay true and strong,
And never wrong with injury repay.
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Ye have heard that it hath been said:
Thou shalt love thy neighbor and hate thine enemy.
But I exhort you: also love your foe,
Pray for the bad as you do for the just.
It is the pagans, after all, who must
Love only those they resemble and know.
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And so, be ye perfect as your Heavenly Father is perfect!
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- Anonymous Moscow bard.
Poem translated by Kosara Gavrilovic. |
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SPIRITUAL WARFARE
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So once again, as do the birds,
We shall to Lord God sing,
And constantly with praying words
Bear everything.
Again the sky is covered
With smoke of our defeats.
Should joy in dreams be offered,
Distrust - it is deceit.
You are again in bitter strife,
Again do arrows fly,
As if by right you cling to life,
Forgetting one must die.
But death does not appear to come.
It will not come, not now.
Who is creeping with such stealth
All through this foggy slough?
It is not death, but apparition,
Satanic lies, delusion.
It is the fallen angels singing,
And born of lust confusion.
Observe the fasts with all your might,
For to avoid the fall.
Pray constantly, pray day and night,
And bear it, bear it all.
You must believe in the renewal
Of waters, earth, solidity.
You must believe that death will die,
Snows gleam again with purity.
But all you need to do is pray
And bear it all.
Again and always you must pray
And bear it, bear it all.
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- Monk Vsevolod (Filipyev).
Translated by Kosara Gavrilovic.
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AT THE GATES OF THE SAROV MONASTERY
100th anniversary of the glorification of Saint Seraphim of Sarov
(1903 – 2003)
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A dark pine forest – deep and dense –
The threshold of the church appears:
The bears are hidden in their dens,
One cannot pass by without prayer here.
And when you walk along this path,
Bow down your head – the gates are sacred,
Forget all anger, sorrow, grief,
Be kind: all those you meet are friends!
Walk slowly as you pass the woods,
With reverence fall on your knees…
Entrust your heart to these white walls,
The singing of the bright-toned bells.
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DIVEEVO
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| (This poem mentions the traditional belief that when the Antichrist goes out to do battle with the last Christians, he will come up to the furrow which St. Seraphim dug around the Diveevo convent and the Mother of God sanctified by passing through it, and will not be able to step over it. Then the convent, together with all its inhabitants, will be taken up to heaven.) |
Once again the roads and byways
Are all filled with ardent prayer…
‘Tis the pilgrims that are coming,
With bright face, on winged feet…
Here’s the trench, - be silent, reverent –
It is waiting for the battle,
It is waiting for the angel,
With his fiery, conquering sword.
Lightly stepped the Theotokos,
As she trod along this furrow…
No one saw – only the elder
Watched the light celestial passing.
Since that time this grace-filled furrow
Sings to us of good eternal,
Of a new-found gift from heaven,
Summons us to take this path.
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The Diveevo Convent. A 1904 litograph. |
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| A PRAYER |
O say not that your humble prayer
Cannot ascend the heights of heaven!
Believe that like the fragrant incense
It’s pleasing to the Heavenly King.
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And when you pray do not be wasteful
With words, but with your soul entire
Apply your faith and strive to realize
That He is near and hears your prayer.
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May love for the Divine Creator
Within your soul burn ever brightly,
As burn the flames of the lampadas
Before the sacred face of icons.
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