Strengthen for service, Lord,
the hands that have taken holy things;
may the ears which have heard your word
be deaf to clamour and dispute;
may the tongues which have sung your praise be free from deceit;
may the eyes which have seen the tokens of your love
shine with the light of hope;
and may the bodies which have been fed with your body
be refreshed with the fullness of your life;
glory to you for ever.
 

Common Worship post-communion for Trinity 8, from Enriching the Christian Year (SPCK) © Michael Perham 1993
 

THIS prayer, attributed to Ephrem the Syrian (c.306-73), has a long history in the Eastern Churches, most notably, since the fifth century, in the Syro-Malabar rite in South India. In the Church of England it is probably best known as a eucharistic hymn, translated by J. M. Neale and Percy Dearmer; it has recently been included in Common Worship as the post-communion prayer for the Eighth Sunday after Trinity.

I have known the prayer since my childhood in the Anglican Church in Iran. It was incorporated into the Anglican service of holy communion in Persian, translated by a skilled Persian poet by the name of Jalil Qazzaq. Appropriately for a prayer attributed to Ephrem, who was one of the most notable hymnographers of Eastern Christianity, in 1940 a beautiful, haunting Persian hymn tune was composed by the Revd Norman Sharp, who was for many years a CMS missionary in Iran.

We frequently sang this hymn, “Mara Een Dast”, at celebrations of the eucharist, and — on that basis of the traditions of the Church of the East — we, like them, sang it during the distribution of holy communion. Hearing it or singing it today still has the power to transport me back to my childhood — back to St Luke’s, Isfahan, where I see the old familiar faces, and recall memories, now frozen in time but sanctified by shared faith: memories that have faded over years, and, because of distance, are no less precious for that.

Now, as I preside at holy communion, I often reflect on how the priest’s hands take and consecrate the ordinary things in life, that they may become for us the body and blood of Jesus Christ. That is an awesome privilege, and a solemn responsibility. My sister sang this hymn when I presided at the eucharist for the first time, when the preacher was the late and distinguished scholar of Islam Bishop Kenneth Cragg.

In 2006, aged 93, and in his 70th year of ministry, Cragg wrote a book, The Order of the Wounded Hands. Looking back over his long ordained life, and, particularly, as one who ordained others, he argues in the book that the taking of authority in ordination can be fully understood only as flowing from the wounded hands of Christ. In turn, this prayer invites us to see the hands that preside to be themselves marked by the woundedness of loving service.

The prayer, however, is not only for priests who preside. In holy communion, each of our hands takes these holy things to our comfort; each of us hears and receives God’s holy word; and each tongue tells of the glorious mystery. Our eyes behold the Lamb of God, and our bodies are made clean by Christ’s body. The prayer always makes me realise that everything we are, in our full physicality — hands, ears, tongues, eyes, and bodies — is transformed by this offering of praise and thanksgiving.

THIS Lent, I am particularly drawn to the phrases of the prayer which ask God to change us by the experience of holy communion: our hands strengthened to serve, our bodies refreshed, and our eyes shining with hope. What could be more engaging and attractive to others than to meet Christians whose spiritual disciplines inspire us to serve, radiating love and hope?

And, in the Church of England during this Lent, beset as we are by clamour and dispute, perhaps we could pray that our ears would be deaf to these distractions, so that the offering to us of Christ’s very self might bring the refreshment of the fullness of his life.

I vividly remember an occasion when my eldest child was two years old, and having the worst tantrum of his life. It was Prayer Book matins on the Sunday after Christmas, in a tiny Cotswold church, freezing, and lit by candlelight. His fury was triggered because he was not going up to the communion rail as was his normal practice.

His little body was rigid with rage, and his mind not capable of reason. Yet I often wonder if there was something in his screaming response that I envied — a desire to let it all out, and to express my longing for more of God, and more of what God offers to me in the sacrament of holy communion.

This prayer reminds me of this longing, and the consequence when it is fulfilled; for, when we encounter Jesus eucharistically, we enter into a deeper understanding, both of ourselves and our Saviour. Theologians have often asked: “What changes at holy communion?” It is a question that can easily be limited to the elements placed on the altar, but this beautiful, touching, and profound prayer reminds us that it is we who are changed. Indeed, we can go further. What changes? Everything.

The Rt Revd Guli Francis-Deqhani is the Bishop of Chelmsford. Her book, Cries for a Lost Homeland: Reflections on Jesus’ sayings from the cross, is published by Canterbury Press at £10.99 (Church Times Bookshop special price £8.79); 978-1-78622-383-8.