Invocation 

Who will call The One to witness? 
Who will assault bright heaven 
   and bend the ear of Him 
   to the puny voice of man? 

Who will cover himself with words 
   as a heavy garment, 
   and hope his solemn prayer 
   will tug the hem of His robe 
   to bid Him listen? 

Who will roll a resonant litany 
   like a fugue to the skies, 
   and hope to wake the sleeping One 
   from His eternal dream? 

I cried a long deep-throated cry 
That rocketed up into the void, 
That seemed to break the stillness of the stars 
And shattered the germinating scheme 
Of night-time's loneliness. 

I cried a rebel's cry. 
But for answer only heard 
The sad thin echo of my voice 
Hurled back from unresponsive space 
And from the heedless night. 

I cried a lonely cry, 
Soul-riven and weary with waiting. 
I tried to shock heaven and make it yield 
The secret. 

And soon, when my intruding sound 
Had ceased its puny escapade, 
The spirit of the stars resumed 
Its mute and timeless contemplation 
Which only dawn could end. 

We will not iterate the thousand names of God 
   nor mumble mystic psalmody, 
   nor climb the ladder of the essences. 

We will not magnify and glorify 
   our own conceits, 
   nor character the unknown 
   with scribbles of our calculi. 

It is enough to let the silence speak. 

And if our ears are barred, 
   or cannot quell the pulse within our drums; 
We will turn aside from invocation 
   and walk into the night. 

Evocation 

Worship has many moods. 
We will not impose the favoured tones of piety alone: 
   supplication, praise and penitence. 
We will evoke the living moods of man 
    that make a man more human. 
Worship is a coat of many colours. 

Let come contemplative, half here and half
withdrawn. 
   He brings a serious intent to see himself 
   immersed in the broad streams of history 
   and in the fount of human values. 
He comes to undergird his frail mortality 
   with balanced meaning. 

Venite adoremus. 
   Adore bright day and quiet night, 
   another human being, grown or young, 
   who gives a warm centre to our selves. 
Recall special place and sanctuary of desire, 
   and mark the golden occasion when we leapt 
   out of our ordinariness. 

Let come confession. 
   We who have dug into the pit of ourselves 
   and found the hollow place and the flint, 
   we do not prate salvation nor elect ourselves 
   to grace; we admit our imperfection; 
and notwithstanding, await a blessing. 

Let come the doubter. 
   He was ever the disciple of sincerity 
   and will not compromise himself by pretending 
   to a covenant he does not feel. 

Mood of frustration comes to all. 
   When good has misfired and ambition recoils, 
   the more we struggle to rise the more we fall. 
A congregation of those who stand firm, 
   who have not bartered themselves for easy gain 
    will give support to the beaten. 

Let come the mourner. 
   She may find among us life-lovers still 
   who neither scour nor nullify the stab of grief, 
   but let the world's affairs break in 
   with food and friendliness, 
   until the scars heal over. 

Let come the glad of heart. 
   We will not smother the joy of living, 
   but match it with a flare of trumpet 
   and a clash of cymbal. 

Worship has many moods.