You are the best and most loyal of friends, Oh Loki,
You Who tangle and untangle the toughest of fates.
You walk through every terror, every challenge
At the side of Your allies and friends,
And the trouble You cause ever works in Your favor.
You, Lopt, bend every error to Your will
And there is no lock You cannot open.
Like a green eyed glittering spider
Sitting in a massive web,
There is no secret of Gods or men
You do not know, and You keep them
Secreted away keen weapons easily summoned
To Your witty lips and hands.
You pour treasure into the hands of your companions,
From You, Thor gained His mighty hammer,
Odin His spear, Frey His magical ship,
And many other glorious gifts.
You ever gift us as well, most often
When we are reluctant, recalcitrant
And resistant to Your mercy.
Never cease, Fiery Hearted Sky-treader
To open us up to all the potentialities
The Gods can provide,
especially when we beg you not to.
Hail to You, Loki, the best of friends
In our time of need, always and ever after.
(by. G. Krasskova; image below by Rackham)
(a prayer to be said on Wednesdays)
You are the fire that burns in Odin’s shadow
The stitch holding the worlds together,
The whisper ever unquiet igniting dissatisfaction.
You keep us from succumbing.
You make memory blaze and sear
Driving us inevitably back to the Gods
Our ancestors forgot.
Bright flickering fire
To Grimnir’s icey dark
The two of You brought the worlds to life
(Hoenir granting order and sense)
and You will bring it back to life again:
restoring what must be restored
even if it must be done in blood and fire.
May we work with the Gods always,
Grant us that, oh clever Roarer*,
And never, ever against,
No matter how rough and challenging
The road may grow.
Hail to You, Loki,
On this, Woden’s Day.
(by G. Krasskova)
*One of his lesser known by-names is Hveðrungr (Roarer).
I was reading a book recently that talked extensively about a Jewish prayer drawn from the book of proverbs. It’s a praise poem that husbands are meant to say to their wives every Friday night meal. It begins with the words “woman of valor” and i was quite struck by that. I have, in my own devotions, used that term for Sigyn for many years.
Sigyn: Woman of Valor
A woman of valor,
who can find?
Her value is greater
than any duergar-made jewel. She enriches
Her husband’s hall.
She is the sanctuary of his heart.
She strengthens and supports him all his days.
With her at his side,
he shall lack in nothing.
She is the guardian of their hearth. Her hands are industrious,
Her heart is willing.
She fills her home with delight.
She does not tarry in idleness,
but nourishes all who are within her care. She is diligent at the spindle,
and keeps the keys of her husband’s hall. She maintains a fruitful, frithful home and her heart is ever strong.
Those under her care have nothing to fear. She sets her hands to the distaff,
she holds the spindle in her palms.
She clothes and feeds her household
and their pantry is never bare.
She is courageous,
Strength and honor are her clothing, She meets the future with courage. Her lips bestow wisdom,
and Her tongue is ever kind. Constancy is Her brightest jewel.
Her children praise Her.
Her husband adores Her.
She surpasses all women in honor. Her piety is Her shield.
Her sweetness of heart Her strength.
All temporal beauty fades,
but the mighty heart
of a valorous woman is forever.
Let Her home be full of abundance, She adorned with every blessing.
Always, Her works will praise Her.
(by G. Krasskova; reposted from an older blog)
You rose up from the primordial grime
hand in hand with Your brothers,
savage yet determined fury
under the light of a cold-bladed moon.
You destroyed Your ancestor,
ruined Him, the indolent breeder,
clotted up his gaping maw
silenced his screeching snores and groans
that ever rattled the wyrm-like field.
You swept it all away and from his bones
built anew, a web of worlds-
bleak in their youth, rich in their promise,
rising and shining in the boughs of the Tree.
You made of his screams a symphony,
bone beautiful and clean.
There was no remorse in You
but elation, satisfaction.
Let there be no remorse in me either,
for the things that I must do
Hail to You, Loður,
Whose blood stained fingers
painted our flesh a lively hue.
(by G. Krasskova)