Midnight Prayer Quotes

The clocks were striking midnight and the rooms were very still as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlid here, settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter.

Vhalla,” he whispered with a voice as dark as midnight. His nose was almost touching hers. “Aldrik,” she breathed faintly, as though it was a prayer. No word had ever tasted sweeter on her tongue.

One Kashmiri morning in the early spring of 1915, my grandfather Aadam Aziz hit his nose against a frost-hardened tussock of earth while attempting to pray. Three drops of blood plopped out of his left nostril, hardened instantly in the brittle air and lay before his eyes on the prayer-mat, transformed into rubies. Lurching back until he knelt with his head once more upright, he found that the tears which had sprung to his eyes had solidified, too; and at that moment, as he brushed diamonds contemptuously from his lashes, he resolved never again to kiss earth for any god or man. This decision, however, made a hole in him, a vacancy in a vital inner chamber, leaving him vulnerable to women and history. Unaware of this at first, despite his recently completed medical training, he stood up, rolled the prayer-mat into a thick cheroot, and holding it under his right arm surveyed the valley through clear, diamond-free eyes.

The god abandons Antony When at the hour of midnight an invisible choir is suddenly heard passing with exquisite music, with voices ― Do not lament your fortune that at last subsides, your life’s work that has failed, your schemes that have proved illusions. But like a man prepared, like a brave man, bid farewell to her, to Alexandria who is departing. Above all, do not delude yourself, do not say that it is a dream, that your ear was mistaken. Do not condescend to such empty hopes. Like a man for long prepared, like a brave man, like the man who was worthy of such a city, go to the window firmly, and listen with emotion but not with the prayers and complaints of the coward (Ah! supreme rapture!) listen to the notes, to the exquisite instruments of the mystic choir, and bid farewell to her, to Alexandria whom you are losing.

Hours of the day were named for the hours of prayer: matins around midnight; lauds around three A.M.; prime, the first hour of daylight, at sunrise or about six A.M.; vespers at six in the evening; and compline at bedtime.

The true Sufi cannot utter any prayer beginning with the word 'I,' for example: 'I want to know Thee better.' For to do this presupposes that there are two beings: the Sufi and Allah. This is the greatest sin. Iblis cried, 'Ana khayrun minhu! (I am better than he is!') The personal pronoun 'I' is the classic Sufi symbol for pride in its extreme form.

Prison is one of the places where we should look for Him. I remember a Good Friday in a cell in the Romanian jail of Jilava. We were all very hungry. But that day when the bowl of gruel was brought to us, we refused to eat it. We fasted. Good Friday is the only fast day described by the Lord Himself: “But the days will come when the bridegroom will be taken away from them, and then they will fast” (Matthew 9:15). Days of fasting, with deep repentance for our past sins and ardent prayers for the persecuted, are the greatest gifts anyone can give to members of the underground church and the missions that help them.

But even as a kid you learn pretty quick that church doesn’t start and stop with the hours of service posted on the church sign. No, church dragged on like the last hour of the school day as we waited in the hot car with Dad for Mom to finish socializing in the fellowship hall. Church lingered long into the gold-tinted Sunday afternoons when Amanda and I gamboled around the house, stripped down to our white slips like little brides. Church showed up at the front door with a chicken casserole when the whole family was down with the flu and called after midnight to ask for prayer and to cry. It gossiped in the pickup line at school and babysat us on Friday nights. It teased me and tugged at my pigtails and taught me how to sing. Church threw Dad a big surprise party for his fortieth birthday and let me in on the secret ahead of time. Church came to me far more than I went to it, and I’m glad.

Love so violent it was a threat, a maelstrom—maybe that could do it. Maybe after it burned through me and I was transfigured, the world would look at me and be afraid. Wouldn’t that be something? The prayer of every teenage girl.

After a while you learn the subtle difference Between holding a hand And chaining a soul. And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning And company doesn’t mean security. And you begin to learn That kisses aren’t compromises And presents aren’t promises. And you begin to accept your defeats With your head up and your eyes ahead With the grace of a woman or a man Not the grief of a child. And you learn to build all your loads on today Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans And futures have a way of falling down in midnight. After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you ask too much. So you plant your own garden And decorate your own soul Instead of waiting for someone to buy you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure That you really are strong. And you really do have worth. And you learn. And you learn. With every failure you learn.   —Anonymous

The months passed away. Slowly a great fear came over Viola, a fear that would hardly ever leave her. For every month at the full moon, whether she would or no, she found herself driven to the maze, through its mysterious walks into that strange dancing-room. And when she was there the music began once more, and once more she danced most deliciously for the moon to see. The second time that this happened she had merely thought that it was a recurrence of her own whim, and that the music was but a trick that the imagination had chosen to repeat. The third time frightened her, and she knew that the force that sways the tides had strange power over her. The fear grew as the year fell, for each month the music went on for a longer time - each month some of the pleasure had gone from the dance. On bitter nights in winter the moon called her and she came, when the breath was vapor, and the trees that circled her dancing-room were black, bare skeletons, and the frost was cruel. She dared not tell anyone, and yet it was with difficulty that she kept her secret. Somehow chance seemed to favor her, and she always found a way to return from her midnight dance to her own room without being observed. Each month the summons seemed to be more imperious and urgent. Once when she was alone on her knees before the lighted altar in the private chapel of the palace she suddenly felt that the words of the familiar Latin prayer had gone from her memory. She rose to her feet, she sobbed bitterly, but the call had come and she could not resist it. She passed out of the chapel and down the palace gardens. How madly she danced that night! ("The Moon Slave")

Should you allow yourself to be overcome with despair? Should you turn back in cowardice or in fear or rush ahead in ignorance? No, you should simply wait—but wait in prayer. Call upon God and plead your case before Him, telling Him of your difficulty and reminding Him of His promise to help. Wait in faith. Express your unwavering confidence in Him. And believe that even if He keeps you waiting until midnight, He will come at the right time to fulfill His vision for you.

McCormack and Richard Tauber are singing by the bed There's a glass of punch below your feet and an angel at your head There's devils on each side of you with bottles in their hands You need one more drop of poison and you'll dream of foreign lands When you pissed yourself in Frankfurt and got syph down in Cologne And you heard the rattling death trains as you lay there all alone Frank Ryan brought you whiskey in a brothel in Madrid And you decked some fucking blackshirt who was cursing all the Yids At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the Devil's in the chair And in the Euston tavern you screamed it was your shout But they wouldn't give you service so you kicked the windows out They took you out into the street and kicked you in the brains So you walked back in through a bolted door and did it all again At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the Devil's in the chair You remember that foul evening when you heard the banshees howl There was lousy drunken bastards singing Billy in the Bowl They took you up to midnight mass and left you in the lurch So you dropped a button in the plate and spewed up in the church Now you'll sing a song of liberty for blacks and Paks and Jocks And they'll take you from this dump you're in and stick you in a box Then they'll take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground But you'll stick your head back out and shout "We'll have another round" At the gravesite of Cuchulainn we'll kneel around and pray And God is in his heaven, and Billy's down by the bay "The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn

The clocks were striking midnight and the rooms were very still as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here, settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter. As she lifted the curtains to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face, which seemed to whisper in the silence, 'Be comforted, dear soul! There is always light behind the clouds.

Creed by Abigail Carroll, p.196-197 I believe in the life of the word, the diplomacy of food. I believe in salt-thick ancient seas and the absoluteness of blue. A poem is an ark, a suitcase in which to pack the universe—I believe in the universality of art, of human thirst for a place. I believe in Adam's work of naming breath and weather—all manner of wind and stillness, humidity and heat. I believe in the audacity of light, the patience of cedars, the innocence of weeds. I believe in apologies, soliloquies, speaking in tongues; the underwater operas of whales, the secret prayer rituals of bees. As for miracles— the perfection of cells, the integrity of wings—I believe. Bones know the dust from which they come; all music spins through space on just a breath. I believe in that grand economy of love that counts the tiny death of every fern and white-tailed fox. I believe in the healing ministry of phlox, the holy brokenness of saints, the fortuity of faults—of making and then redeeming mistakes. Who dares brush off the auguries of a storm, disdain the lilting eulogies of the moon? To dance is nothing less than an act of faith in what the prophets sang. I believe in the genius of children and the goodness of sleep, the eternal impulse to create. For love of God and the human race, I believe in the elegance of insects, the imminence of winter, the free enterprise of grace.

Only then comes the fourth and last movement, the Adagio, the final farewell. It takes the form of a prayer, Mahler's last chorale, his closing hymn, so to speak; and it prays for the restoration of life, of tonality, of faith. This is tonality unashamed, presented in all aspects ranging from the diatonic simplicity of the hymn tune that opens it through every possible chromatic ambiguity. It's also a passionate prayer, moving from one climax to another, each more searing than the last. But there are no solutions. And between these surges of prayer there is intermittently a sudden coolness, a wide-spaced transparency, like an icy burning — a Zen-like immobility of pure meditation. This is a whole other world of prayer, of egoless acceptance. But again, there are no solutions. "Heftig ausbrechend!" he writes, as again the despairing chorale breaks out with greatly magnified intensity. This is the dual Mahler, flinging himself back into his burning Christian prayer, then again freezing into his Eastern one. This vacillation is his final duality. In the very last return of the hymn he is close to prostration; it is all he can give in prayer, a sobbing, sacrificial last try. But suddenly this climax fails, unachieved — the one that might have worked, that might have brought solutions. This last desperate reach falls short of its goal, subsides into a hint of resignation, then another hint, then into resignation itself. And so we come to the final incredible page. And this page, I think, is the closest we have ever come, in any work of art, to experiencing the very act of dying, of giving it all up. The slowness of this page is terrifying: Adagissimo, he writes, the slowest possible musical direction; and then langsam (slow), ersterbend (dying away), zögernd (hesitat-ing); and as if all those were not enough to indicate the near stoppage of time, he adds äusserst langsam (extremely slow) in the very last bars. It is terrifying, and paralyzing, as the strands of sound disintegrate. We hold on to them, hovering between hope and submission. And one by one, these spidery strands connecting us to life melt away, vanish from our fingers even as we hold them. We cling to them as they dematerialize; we are holding two-then one. One, and suddenly none. For a petrifying moment there is only silence. Then again, a strand, a broken strand, two strands, one ... none. We are half in love with easeful death ... now more than ever seems it rich to die, to cease upon the midnight with no pain ... And in ceasing, we lose it all. But in letting go, we have gained everything.

Today marks the last day of the calendar year. Many of us will celebrate this event with friends, food and partying. Some parishes offer an alternative way to commemorate the coming of the New Year: prayer in church before the Blessed Sacrament. Others of us will opt for sleep. However we celebrate, when the clock strikes midnight (unless we’re already in bed), we will bid farewell to 2014 and welcome in 2015. But before this year ends, let us take a few minutes today to thank God for the obvious blessings of 2014: our loved ones, our spiritual growth, the challenges we faced and worked through, the love we received and bestowed this past year. And let us entrust the painful and ambiguous events of 2014 to God’s love and mercy. Then let us ask God for the grace to live the coming year well, ready and eager to receive grace upon grace from our good God. God of all time, thank you for the graces of this past year and for the graces yet to come.

Midnight Mass was required, and at Saint Aloysius, it lasted ninety minutes. Because the church was crowded with what Mother called “one timers” who attended Mass only on Christmas Eve, we arrived at 11:00 p.m. to get a seat near the front. The church was splendidly decorated. Poinsettias bloomed everywhere, huge wreaths and sprigs of holly tied with red bows hung on every pillar, potent incense enveloped us, and six tall candles burning on the main altar lighted our way out of the long, cold darkness. Carols sung from the choir loft filled the church and evoked the sensuous beauty and mystery of this holy night. While other children chatted with friends and showed off their holiday apparel, My PareNTs, gail aNd i, Mara aNd NiCho- las; ChrisTMas, 1974; CaNToN, ohio I sat quietly, awaiting the chimes that announced the first minutes of Christmas and heralded the solemn service: the priest’s white and gold vestments, his ritualized gestures, the Latin prayers, the incense, the communion service with the transfigured bread and wine, and the priest’s blessings from the high altar that together

As I walked the grounds memories crowded my mind: countless Christmas Masses at midnight in the warm, sensuous church; my first communion; serving Sunday High Mass with its Latin prayers, rituals, and ringing bells; walking to and from school in all manner of weather; the crowded classrooms, and the strict Sisters of Saint Joseph

midnight when I awaken, I meditate upon Thy name, so altogether lovely, upon Thy goodness and fidelity, vouchsafed unto me, and I praise Thee because of Thy righteous judgments.

June 21 THE MINISTRY OF THE INNER LIFE “You are . . . a royal priesthood . . . .” 1 Peter 2:9     By what right have we become “a royal priesthood”? It is by the right of the atonement by the Cross of Christ that this has been accomplished. Are we prepared to purposely disregard ourselves and to launch out into the priestly work of prayer? The continual inner-searching we do in an effort to see if we are what we ought to be generates a self-centered, sickly type of Christianity, not the vigorous and simple life of a child of God. Until we get into this right and proper relationship with God, it is simply a case of our “hanging on by the skin of our teeth,” although we say, “What a wonderful victory I have!” Yet there is nothing at all in that which indicates the miracle of redemption. Launch out in reckless, unrestrained belief that the redemption is complete. Then don’t worry anymore about yourself, but begin to do as Jesus Christ has said, in essence, “Pray for the friend who comes to you at midnight, pray for the saints of God, and pray for all men.” Pray with the realization that you are perfect only in Christ Jesus, not on the basis of this argument: “Oh, Lord, I have done my best; please hear me now.”     How long is it going to take God to free us from the unhealthy habit of thinking only about ourselves? We must get to the point of being sick to death of ourselves, until there is no longer any surprise at anything God might tell us about ourselves. We cannot reach and understand the depths of our own meagerness. There is only one place where we are right with God, and that is in Christ Jesus. Once we are there, we have to pour out our lives for all we are worth in this ministry of the inner life.

Nyx tried to remember the words to the opening surah of midnight prayer, but realized she had forgotten it, somewhere between the front and the rebuild tank. They could rebuild all these bodies, here, every last one of them, but the lives, what came before – all ashes.

Have you had this place inspected?” he asked. “The house is ready to fall off its timbers. I couldn’t risk coming in here without offering a quick prayer to Butyakengo.” “Who?” “A Gypsy protective spirit.” He smiled at her. “But now that I’m here, I’ll take my chances.

I went into isometrics training and looked at that. And she's pushing against the immovable. That has a lot of meaning for me. That you have to push against the immovable. You have to push. Even if you haven't got a prayer of moving it. Because even if you don't move it, you'll change yourself. You'll change something. Something will break open. That's where my heart is on that one.

But unlike these other kinds of experts, power in prayer comes from being in touch with your weakness. To teach us how to pray, Jesus told stories of weak people who knew they couldn’t do life on their own. The persistent widow and the friend at midnight get access, not because they are strong but because they are desperate. Learned desperation is at the heart of a praying life.

Prayer and other forms of worship all have their own status and importance but the true sense of worship is that a person can become a 'proper human being' and that he or she adopts Akhlaaq-e-Hameeda (laudable manners). The reason for doing Dhikr and sitting in the company of the Awliyaa (friends of Allah) is solely to become better human beings, to diminish our bad habits and to learn from their excellent conduct. One of the biggest problems which we are facing is that we have forgotten those manners that should have been befitting of the Umma (followers of Muhammad).

It was true. Nothing was ever lost. And nothing was ever forgotten, no matter how painful. The city was like a heart that way. She had four chambers, too. She had arteries that led in and out. She kept things moving. She kept the oxygen flowing in and out, in and out, clean for dirty, dirty for clean, the filthy midnight whispers for the purest morning prayers

Sing it like the midnight wind, Sing it like a prayer; Sing it on to the way to hell, Them blues’ll take you there. —Oren Morse, Dead Man’s Song

THE EIGHT PRAYER WATCHES SECOND PRAYER WATCH (9.00PM—12MIDNIGHT) Father in the name of Jesus, we thank you for the continuation of your unconditional love and your divine protection over our families, our cities, our nation of South Africa and the nations of the world in the mighty name of Jesus ‘Let God arise and His enemies be scattered’(Psalm 68:1). Heavenly Father we ask for your intervention as we are approaching the midnight hour. We pray that you will give us strength and boldness to pray and give thanks to you Father, ‘At midnight I will rise to give thanks to you because of your righteous judgement’ (Psalm 119:62). We ask you Lord to set us free from every stumbling block that try to hinder your perfect gracious plan for our lives, our families, our cities, our villages and our country in Jesus name. The book of Exodus 12:29-31 tells us that it was at the midnight hour when you struck down the firstborns of Egypt which resulted the Israelis to be set free from the captivity. We ask you Lord to set us free from the hatred, anger, poverty, witchcraft and everything that is meant to harm us inJesu name. We come against every power of the kingdom of darkness and we cancel every plan of the enemy that is meant to destroy our lives in the name of Jesus. We pray for healing and the blessings of our beloved country of South Africa. We pray for the increase of repentance, love, peace, kindness, compassion and everything that will build our country stronger in Jesus name. We pray for the increase of provision for the visions God has given us. We pray for the increase of outpouring of the spirit of prayer for the following watch in the name of Jesus. Thank you Lord for your faithfulness and for your mercy and grace. We pray in the mighty name of Jesus. Amen.

EIGHT PRAYER WATCHES THIRD PRAYER WATCH (MIDNIGHT—3AM) Father in the name of Jesus cover us with your blood in this most darkest hour and the most demonic time of the night. Help us to stand firm against all the influence of the demonic activities in the name of Jesus. We come against witchcraft, curses, ‘So she got up in the middle of the night and took my son from my side while I your servant asleep. She put him by her breast and put her dead son by my breast (1King 3:20). We come against the destiny theft and the destiny hi jacking in the mighty name of Jesus. We erase every single negative word that was spoken over South Africa and her people. We come against fear mongering in the name of Jesus. Your word says, ‘You have not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, love and sound mind (2 Timothy 1:7). Father God we ask you to deliver us from the prison of all diseases, viruses (corona virus), poverty, killings and all plagues like you freed Paul and Silas at this time of the night (Act 16:24). Heavenly Father in the name of Jesus release your power, your mercies, your grace and your favour over South Africa and her people. Cleanse our beautiful land from the bloodshed and help us to unite and love one another in the mighty name of Jesus, we pray. And South Africa shall be called blessed. Thank you Lord Jesus.

Poem of the Phalanx (Perception as Visual Personal Art) Memories, shard, intersect and twitch, Create images anew as they inter and switch. Amid blackness eternal, the ground breaks the day And the shape which cuts the ground— Phalanx in time—reapers way. 5 Thoughts as geometric planes galley the night mind, Images thoughted, float raging ever by. Comets to the mind–bolt outta the black they mortise and fly– Disappear they do–into their midnighted cry. (Yea, evil is wrought from the want of the want of Love’s lost ought. 10 Goodness wrights of the abundance of Love in blood ’twas bought. —Live the moment within God’s Mind too, For once missed she will pass by you. But He alone shall remember thy days, For in His Heart He will hold thy ways. 15 (. . . Surmount untold; reproaching its summits hidden self face, Can’t make for a daydrop of lost opportunity and regret’s disgrace. Yes, eternities of regrets can never create The day’s bested instance that was forsaked). Fleets of illusion harbor and snag, 20 Bristled spears impale with emotive jags. Willish anvil beaten and enhammored in bers red embs, Guards the hellgates unhinged in forged remembered contems. (Aye, the anvil of will beaten and wrought Sentinels the gate ripped in forged oughts). 25 Phalanx of dreams penetrate they deep, Guard thy soul they do lest the enemy storms thy keep. They rancor and barb thyself under penalty of arms, And kill the dragons that would do thee most harm. Yea, in the Belly of the Beast thy wounds do feel pierced, 30 For Love Eternal must cut darkness as the Spirit is so fierce. The hour of shadows exalt—! ’Gainst the Christ in His plain splin‴try array– Yet curshed in a moment on that ill-fated day. The way of caution doth forbear to tread beyond the mire In those bleak hours when the ‘Powers that Be’ seek to solace thee in thy soulish desires. 35 Mercy travails deep upon the Fires of His Winds To heal by His cut; His own everlasting His– Is to die to Love Eternal with He, –as He now does and is . . . Hell for others, heaven for some, His work ’tis finished all given and in all thrust done. 40 As Love rejoices His shed blood run red for thee—, —Things Divined and precioius for you and for me forever in He (The spear that killed Him gave Him life –the enemy’s travesty). Phalanx comes, phalanx goes, Wither are thou—dost thousest know? 45 Are ye pierced through and through out within? Seek his face so life may begin Sharp keys to hell the warriors doth say, Yet unlock they the gate to heaven’s pathway. End

The rosary was said in most houses then, but in few midnight gardens. The version that night was murmured and swift. By native decree, and the proven truth that no nation spoke faster, punctuation in prayer had been long ago dispensed with, breathless delivery was acceptable to the Lord who could pause, parse and separate the string of prayers in His own time.

Prayer Works Lessons from a prayerful Mother In the darkest hour of the night During the hardest time of life When unsure if things will be alright You should pray! When your mind lacks peace And your heart is too broken to beat When you struggle to stand on your feet You ought to pray! When some things do not make sense And everyone close becomes distant When your faith is shaken in an instant You must pray! When the sun is about to set And your noontime is filled with tears When midnight is covered with fear Wake up and pray! When on the battlefield And you seem to have lost your shield When there is no sign you could win Look upon the hills and pray! When the race becomes too long And you cannot keep going on When everything seems over Kneel and pray! For prayer will: Put you back together Set you in a good place forever Keep you going no matter what Give you something to smile about Remove the weight off your shoulders Relieve you of discomfort Heal even a gaping wound Help you follow the right way Take you through another day Each and every day Remember to pray Because prayer works!

He often told me the story that Trudeau called him on Christmas Eve 1971 and asked it John and his wife, Geills, would that Margaret and him to a midnight mass, something the Turners always attended at Christmas. They agreed and drove there together. Turner said it was a wonderful evening of friendship and prayer. He never forgot it because of what else happened just a few hours later. Not long after they dropped the Trudeaus off at 24 Sussex, Margaret and Pierre headed to the hospital where Justin was born on Christmas Day.

Prayer Works Lessons from a prayerful Mother In the darkest hour of the night During the hardest time of life When unsure if things will be all right You should pray! When your mind lacks peace And your heart is too broken to beat When you struggle to stand on your feet You ought to pray! When some things do not make sense And everyone close becomes distant When your faith is shaken in an instant You must pray! When the sun is about to set And your noontime is filled with tears When the midnight is covered with fear Wake up and pray! When in the battlefield And you have misplaced your shield When there is no sign you could win Look upon the hills and pray! When the race becomes too long And you cannot keep going on When everything seems over Kneel and pray! For prayer will: Put you back together Set you in a good place forever Keep you going no matter what Give you something to smile about Remove the weight off your shoulders Relieve you from discomfort Heal even a gaping wound Help you follow the right way Take you through another day Each and everyday Remember to pray Because prayer works!

They were not the faith I chose. Like mom’s ghostly visitors when she was five, my cousins chose me, knocking on my midnight door, portentous at my bedside. After all my god denying and god shopping. After all my hours in Quaker pews, reading Yoruba books, studying Lukumí prayers. Just so the universe could be cute a decade later and pass me a note in class. You were born into the church, Qui Qui.

Everything you do is important and a deposit in your children’s future.

Prayer is the most sublime energy of which the spirit of man is capable [1]. It is in one aspect glory and blessedness; in another, it is toil and travail, battle and agony. Uplifted hands grow tremulous long before the field is won; straining sinews and panting breath proclaim the exhaustion of the "heavenly footman." The weight that falls upon an aching heart fills the brow with anguish, even when the midnight air is chill. Prayer

And in his weariness, only one word came to Jonathan, like a prayer. Tommy, he thought, invoking what was good and real. Tommy. The word for love in his world right now. Tommy. And he supposed the word that occurred to you in your darkest moments...well, that word meant love. That was perhaps how you knew. And perhaps that was the purpose of dark moments.

It was in a lonely, mountainous region, the haunt of wild beasts and the lurking place of robbers and murderers. Solitary and unprotected, Jacob bowed in deep distress upon the earth. It was midnight. All that made life dear to him were at a distance, [197] exposed to danger and death. Bitterest of all was the thought that it was his own sin which had brought this peril upon the innocent. With earnest cries and tears he made his prayer before God. Suddenly a strong hand was laid upon him. He thought that an enemy was seeking his life, and he endeavored to wrest himself from the grasp of his assailant. In the darkness the two struggled for the mastery. Not a word was spoken, but Jacob put forth all his strength, and did not relax his efforts for a moment. While he was thus battling for his life, the sense of his guilt pressed upon his soul; his sins rose up before him, to shut him out from God. But in his terrible extremity he remembered God’s promises, and his whole heart went out in entreaty for his mercy. The struggle continued until near the break of day, when the stranger placed his finger upon Jacob’s thigh, and he was crippled instantly. The patriarch now discerned the character of his antagonist. He knew that he had been in conflict with a heavenly messenger, and this was why his almost superhuman effort had not gained the victory. It was Christ, “the Angel of the covenant,” who had revealed himself to Jacob. The patriarch was now disabled and suffering the keenest pain, but he would not loosen his hold. All penitent and broken, he clung to the Angel; “he wept, and made supplication” (Hosea 12:4), pleading for a blessing. He must have the assurance that his sin was pardoned. Physical pain was not sufficient to divert his mind from this object. His determination grew stronger, his faith more earnest and persevering, until the very last. The Angel tried to release himself; he urged, “Let Me go, for the day breaketh;” but Jacob answered, “I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me.” Had this been a boastful, presumptuous confidence, Jacob would have been instantly destroyed; but his was the assurance of one who confesses his own unworthiness, yet trusts the faithfulness of a covenant-keeping God.

There were now two angels, which were all that the late prayer cover could provide, and they were doing their best to grab and to destroy the demons who were still trying to get inside. But unfortunately, two angels were no match of the hundreds of demons who had already flooded the hall under Balzor's orders. Although individual demons were no match for one of God's angels, in large numbers, the advantage was turned, and in tight quarters a swarm of demons could drive away an angel with thousands of sharp bites. So the two angels had to remain outside, and the grand ballroom where Fuller would soon speak was sadly almost as dark as midnight. Only the flames burning inside the many Christian men seated at the tables illuminated any of the eternal players in the ballroom.

Go ahead. Make the midnight knock. Stand up on behalf of those you love. And, yes, stand up on behalf of those you do not. “Pray for those who hurt you” (Matt. 5:44 NCV). The quickest way to douse the fire of anger is with a bucket of prayer. Rather than rant, rave, or seek revenge, pray. Jesus did this. While hanging on the cross, he interceded for his enemies: “Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they’re doing” (Luke 23:34 MSG). Jesus, even Jesus, left his enemies in God’s hands.

HOURS OF PRAYER Benedict established seven hours of prayer during the day and one at night; collectively they are known as “the Divine Office” or simply “the hours”:       TRADITIONAL NAME NAME OF OFFICE TODAYTIME Vigils (or Matins) Office of Readings Midnight Lauds Morning Prayer 6 AM–11 AM (Prime) (No longer generally used) (6 AM–7 AM) Terce Midmorning Prayer 9 AM Sext Midday Prayer Noon None (rhymes with “tone”) Midafternoon Prayer 3 PM Vespers Evening Prayer 3 PM–6 PM Compline Night Prayer Before bed       Praying at fixed times was not new to Benedict—it is as old as the psalmists. Nor was the use of the Psalter a Benedictine innovation. Already by the first generation, Christians were using the Psalter for prayers.

There was a car parked in the driveway. She hadn’t seen what appeared to be a rental car, a light blue Ford Taurus, drive up the hill, and apparently neither had Call. “Looks like you’ve got company,” he said. “Looks like. I wonder who it is.” Just then, the door swung and a man stood framed in the opening. Charity froze in her tracks as Jeremy Hauser stepped out on the porch. For a moment she just stood there, her stomach churning, trying to convince herself she was still asleep and this was a very bad dream. Please God, I promise to be a good girl if you’ll just…She didn’t finish the mantra. The fervent prayer hadn’t worked when she was a kid wanting a new pony and it wasn’t going to make Jeremy disappear.

Love was a prayer to life. Vengeance was a prayer to the demons of righteousness. Sealing a business pact was, she said with a faint smile, a prayer to the whisperer of illusions. Attainment for one was born of deprivation for another, after all. A game played with two hands.

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The Talmud recounts that King David’s harp would play itself at midnight. And the Jerusalem Talmud comments that in the verse, “When the musician would play music, the hand of God would be upon him,” the word for “musician” should be read as “musical instrument” instead: the instrument would play by itself. Why do our sages insist on conflating musician and musical instrument? The answer is that when a person attains the perfect level of prayer, he himself is an instrument playing music spontaneously; he has become the instrument of song, of prophecy, of prayer. The melody is his, and his entire being is none other than an instrument expressing that prayer.

POEMS “Song of the Open Road”—Walt Whitman “The Tyger”—William Blake “I Thought of You”—Sara Teasdale “Sonnet 140”—William Shakespeare “A Clear Midnight”—Walt Whitman “Something Left Undone”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “A Prayer for My Daughter”—William Butler Yeats “My Little March Girl”—Paul Laurence Dunbar “The Mountain Sat Upon the Plain”—Emily Dickinson

First, Paul and Silas were whipped by the jailer. Then their feet were fastened into metal stocks, and their legs were spread as far apart as humanly possible, causing excruciating pain. Did they curse God? Did they say, “How could a God of love do this to us?” No. They prayed and they praised the Lord. They realized it was time to pray: “At midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them” (Acts 16:25). Songs, not groans came from their mouths.