Our lesser lights are fragments of the distant sun.
We light them not in feeble imitation,
for if across our little flame a single sunbeam falls,
it turns it into shadow.

We light our chalice to illumine our debt
and to kindle our desire.

Desire for the flower of sweet passion;
desire for the flame of forgotten love;
desire for bright space and orbit round the sun;
desire for life's burning and its rest.

See the cup with curling flame.
Air bathes it and bends its light,
And shapes it like a petal on a stem.
Air is consumed in it, but not possessed.

The cup is wide and shallow;
its profile like arms outstretched to receive.
From all the world comes the oil of burning
and the gathered pool of it
is a well of wisdom
serene as eternity.

Let meditation be still
as a flame in a windless place.

Flame curls from the chalice cup
like a gesture of prayer,
until prayer turns into service
sent from hands of sympathy
to fill the emptiness of other hands.

Our lesser lights can easily be quenched
by boisterous wind or heavy hand.
But none can extinguish the flame of service
which runs from a man to his neighbour.
Another cup is lit from the proffered light.

Light the common lamps
in windows so that men can find their way,
along the streets so that robber fear may fly,
above the rocks so that ships may miss the jagged tooth,
at touch-down so that planes may run to rest.

When daylight comes,
walk in trust beneath the larger light.

By the stilling of your turmoil in quietness,
by the stretching of your minds in wonder,
by the girding of your lives with good,
by the lifting up of hands in praise,
    come and worship.

Creative powers move silently through space
and on the crust of earth
bring motion, life and mind to birth.
Mind-tremor runs invisibly through our limbs
until it touches our hands
and moves our fingers to the weaving of their skills.

May the work of our hands match the mode of their
        making.
    Hand-clasp bringing friendliness.
    Hand-soothe bringing help and healing.
    Hands that come with garlands of beauty,
        cunning with brush and chisle, deft with pen,
        virtuous with instruments of music,
        graceful to poise a flower in its bowl.
    Hands that bring shelter,
        making home for homeless
        and sanctuary for wandering minds.
    Hands that make the fabric of our time,
        spanning the rivers with steel
        and skies with silver wings.
    Hands of applause for work well done
        and words well taken.
    All Hands! in time of trouble.

May the work and touch of our hands
be as prayer in the temples of the world.

Forget not calloused hands and do not spurn
    the man of lowly toil.
Turn not your back upon a beggar's hands;
    he asks for the dime of acceptance.
Stand not aghast at the slayer's hands,
    but find asylum for him
    and level justice.
The hands of a thief are fit
    not only for the manacle,
    but also for the bow,
    that he may turn his indignity
    into a song upon strings.
Remember hands that were pierced with nails
    where all might see the agony.
Banish gibbet and bring the sufferer
    to lie upon the ground.

May the guilt of our hands be expunged,
    not by wringing them in despair,
but by setting them to the plough.