A Canticle for a Burning World

Blessed be the One,

wild and holy,

whose breath stirs the void,

whose voice hums in all things,

whose light flickers in the deep.

Blessed be Brother Sun,

flame of creation, ancient and bright,

now burning strange,

searing the land,

turning green to dust, rivers to ghosts,

a fire in the hands of the reckless.

Blessed be Sister Rain,

weaver of streams, cradle of life,

withheld in sorrow, loosed in rage—

a dry and thirsty land,

a drowning city,

a reckoning in every drop.

Blessed be Brother Wind,

once a whisper, now a wail,

rushing through ruins, bending trees to prayer,

calling: return, return,

as the storm breaks upon the world.

Blessed be Sister Earth,

ancient, aching, alive,

cracked but not yet broken,

groaning in labour, waiting for the dawn.

Blessed be the birds,

feathered psalmists,

whose songs are stolen by silence,

whose skies are torn by fire.

Blessed be the fish,

swimming in poisoned waters,

their silver bodies fading,

their exile written in plastic and oil.

Blessed be the mammals,

wandering the ruins of Eden,

last of their kind,

ghosts of a world that once sang.

Woe to the unholy trinity—

Greed, that feasts on beauty,

Apathy, that turns away,

Power, that builds thrones on the backs of the poor.

Woe to those who paved over paradise,

who stripped the forests bare,

who drowned the rivers in ruin

and called it progress.

Blessed be the rebels,

the ones who plant trees in the shadow of towers,

who kneel in the dust and weep,

who rage, who repent, who rebuild,

who hold fast to the dream of renewal.

Blessed be the One

who does not forget the cry of the earth,

who does not forsake the burning world,

who walks our streets in dust and flame,

calling all things

into resurrection’s light.

-Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025