Prayers by the Lake…

Anoint my heart with the oil of Your mercy, my most merciful Lord.

May neither anger against the strong nor scorning of the weak ever erupt in my heart! For everything is weaker than the morning dew.

May hatred never make a nest in my heart against those who plot evil against me, so that I may be mindful of their end and be at peace.

Mercifulness opens the way to the heart of all creatures, and brings joy. Mercilessness brings fog to the fore, and creates a cramped isolation.

Have mercy on Your merciful servant, most Tender Hand, and reveal to me the mystery of Your mercy.

The Ultimate Man is the child of the Father’s mercy and the Spirit’s light.

All creation is merely a story about Him. The mighty suns in the heavens and the smallest drops of water in the lake cany in themselves one part of the story about Him. All the builders of heaven and earth, from the exceedingly mighty seraphim to rulers and the tiniest particle of dust, tell the very same story about Him, their fore-essence and fore-source.

What are all the things on the earth and the moon except the sun in stories? Truly, in this way all visible and invisible creation is the Ultimate Man in stories. Essence is simple, but there is no end or number to the stories about essence.

My neighbors, how can I tell you about essence, when you do not even understand stories.

Ah if you only knew how great the sweetness, the expanse, and the strength are, when one reaches the bottom of all thestories—there, where the stories begin and where they end. There, where the tongue is silent and where everything is told at once!

How boring all the lengthy and tedious stories of creatures become then! Truly, they become just as boring as it is for one who is accustomed to seeing lightning to hear stories about lightning.

Receive me into Yourself, O Only-Begotten Son, so that I may be one with You as I was before creation and the Fall.

Let my long and weary story about You end with a moment’s vision of You. Let my self-deception die, that would have me think that I am something without You, that I am something else outside of You.

My ears are stuffed with stories. My eyes no longer seek to see any display of clothing but You, my essence, overladen with stories and clothing.

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