Agios O Theos | Agios Ischyros | Agios Athanatos | Eleison Imas
The Trisagion (Thrice Holy) Prayer is an ancient prayer in Christianity going back to the fourth century, and is a standard hymn of the liturgy in the Greek Orthodox Churches.
It was chanted in Greek: Ἅγιος ὁ Θεός, Ἅγιος ἰσχυρός, Ἅγιος ἀθάνατος, ἐλέησον ἡμᾶς.” In the book of Common Worship, it is translated as “Holy God, Holy and Strong, Holy and Immortal, have mercy upon us.” A more literal translation might be “Holy God, Holy Strong One, Holy Not-Death One, Have mercy on us.”
Agios O Theos
Agios Ischyros
Agios Athanatos
Eleison Imas
A more literal translation might be:
Holy God
Holy Strong One
Holy Not Death One
Have Mercy On Us
At a recent Wisdom School at Claymont, Deborah Rose taught some group movements to the chant. Some of these group movements have also been adapted for individual use while sitting.
When you chant and move with the prayer, you can also give voice to your own internal translation:
Holy, the Mystery – within you I live and move and have my being
Holy, the Strong One – in my weakness you are strong
Holy, the One Against Death – nothing in life or death shall separate me from your love
Have Mercy on Us – I have need of you. Help us.
Here are some simplified movements that can be used by an individual while sitting.
Agios O Theos | Agios Ischyros | Agios Athanatos | Eleison Imas
This next poem reflects the inner weather we all experience—the storm, the grayness, and also the surprising, tender emergence of light. It reminds us how easily we fix ourselves into a single frame, and how sacred the act of letting go can be.
It’s an invitation into transformation, not by control or willpower, but by wonder and trust. As you listen, notice what image or phrase calls to something inside you.
Never the Same
Rosemary Wahtola Trommer
Sometimes a person wakes
believing they are a storm.
It’s hard to deny it, what,
with all the rain pouring out
of the gutters of the mind,
all the gusts blowing through,
all the squalls, all the gray.
But by afternoon, it seems obvious
they are a garden about to sprout.
By night, it is clear they are a moon—
luminous, radiant, faithful.
That’s the danger, I suppose,
of believing any frame.
Let me believe, then, in curiosity,
in wonder, in change.
Let me trust how essential it is
to stumble into the trough
of the unknown, marvel how
trough becomes wings becomes
faith becomes math. Let me trust
uncertainty is a sacred path.
Questions for Reflection or Sharing
- Which image from this poem mirrors something within you today—storm, garden, moon, trough, wings?
- What “frame” have you believed about yourself lately? Is it still serving you?
- Have you experienced a moment recently when something that felt like loss or chaos revealed unexpected growth?
- What helps you trust “uncertainty as a sacred path”?
- Can you name a time when you stumbled "into the trough of the unknown," into something you didn’t plan—and it changed you?
- What does “trough becomes wings becomes faith becomes math” mean to you?
That phrase — “trough becomes wings becomes faith becomes math” — is rich with movement, paradox, and spiritual insight.
Trough: The trough is a low place — a depression between waves, a slump in the soul, a moment of uncertainty, grief, or emptiness. It’s the part of life we usually resist. But the poem suggests: don’t run from the trough. Trust it. Something is about to unfold.
Becomes wings: In surrendering to the low place, something paradoxical happens: transformation. The very space of not-knowing gives rise to flight — insight, perspective, even freedom. The idea that wings grow in the dark is deeply spiritual. The trough doesn’t just lead to wings — it becomes them.
Becomes faith: The act of trusting this hidden unfolding — of letting the darkness birth light — awakens faith. Not belief in a doctrine, but deep, embodied trust in life, in grace, in the invisible currents that hold us even in collapse. This faith is grown, not given. It’s what rises from staying present to the storm.
Becomes math: This is the most surprising turn. “Math” might symbolize the order behind the chaos — the underlying coherence or intelligence woven into reality, even if we don’t see it at first.
It could also mean:
Integration: When the experience finally “adds up,” later.
Mystical geometry: The way the universe, like music or sacred architecture, has a deep hidden harmony.
Awe in precision: That what once felt like disorder becomes beauty and structure.
In summary, this line seems to trace a sacred arc: Disorientation → Transformation → Trust → Meaning
Or more poetically: Fall → Flight → Faith → Form. It’s a gentle reminder that the path of unknowing isn’t a detour. It’s the sacred path itself — and it adds up in the end.
This next passage from Pema Chödrön invites us to stop trying to ‘fix’ what feels broken and instead to stay — with the grief, the shakiness, the longing, the mess. It turns our usual ideas about healing upside-down.
This is not about transcendence or escape. It’s about radical presence. It’s about learning to trust the sacred rhythm of coming together and falling apart. And catching ourselves — again and again — with compassion.”
When Things Fall Apart
Pema Chödrön
Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.
To stay with that shakiness—to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feelings of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge—that is the path of true awakening. Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic—this is the spiritual path. Getting the knack of catching ourselves, of gently and compassionately catching ourselves is the path of the warrior. We catch ourselves one zillion times as once again, whether we like it or not, we harden into resentment, into a sense of relief, a sense of inspiration.
What This Passage Might Mean:
“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing.” We often think disruption is a failure or crisis. But this line says: it’s the curriculum. The falling apart is the initiation. It’s not something to get through — it’s where the deep work happens.
“They come together and they fall apart. It’s just like that.” This is spiritual realism. Life isn’t linear. It cycles — rhythmically, painfully, beautifully. When we stop trying to “solve” life, we can start to live it fully.
“To stay with that shakiness… that is the path of true awakening.” We often think awakening is bliss. But here, it’s defined as staying present in discomfort — not checking out, not blaming, not fleeing. Just being with.
“The path of the warrior.” This isn’t about toughness, but about a gentle inner strength. A warrior here is someone who dares to face life with vulnerability, compassion, and resilience — and who catches themselves a zillion times without judgment.
Questions for Reflection or Sharing
- What in your life has “fallen apart” recently? What, if anything, has begun to come together again?
- Can you name a time when falling apart was also, somehow, a healing?
- What’s it like for you to stay with shakiness? What helps? What makes it difficult?
- How do you usually respond when discomfort arises? What would it mean to “not panic”?
- Pema says we “catch ourselves” again and again. Where in your life are you learning to catch yourself with compassion?
- What does the phrase “the path of the warrior” mean to you today?
Guided Silence Prompt: Let’s rest in silence with one question or phrase from Pema’s words. Breathe gently. Notice what arises. Let there be room for all of it—grief, joy, shakiness, and stillness.”
This quote from Thomas Merton, taken from New Seeds of Contemplation, is both unsettling and tender. It speaks directly to the mystery of inner disruption as the ground from which the divine is born — not in our polished moments, but in the places we most want to hide or reject.
New Seeds of Contemplation
Thomas Merton
You have to allow disruption in your life. You have to take account of the parts of yourself you would throw out. You have to look in the places you look away from. And this is so the divine comes into birth. The divine wishes to come into birth in every moment.
True love and prayer are learned in the moment when prayer has become impossible, and the heart has turned to stone.
Thomas Merton, one of the great Christian contemplatives of the 20th century, reminds us that the divine doesn’t wait for us to get everything in order. He says God is born in the mess, in the ignored parts of ourselves, in the silence after the prayer dies on our lips. This is not a call to perfection — it’s a call to honesty, to surrender, and to love the whole of who we are. These words may land hard. They invite us to look at the part of ourselves we’d rather throw out — and trust that this, too, is holy ground.
What This Passage Might Mean
“You have to allow disruption in your life.”Disruption isn’t failure — it’s the fertile ground for something sacred to begin. Merton is calling us to stop resisting disorder and begin welcoming the breaking-open.
“Take account of the parts of yourself you would throw out.” This is the shadow work of contemplation. Not just loving our light, but turning toward the exiled parts — the shame, fear, anger, or weakness — and saying: “Even this belongs.”
“So the divine comes into birth.” The divine is not waiting for you to clean up. It wants to be born in the very moment of inner contradiction and fracture. In other words, God is not out there. God is right here, in this.
“True love and prayer are learned… when the heart has turned to stone.” Real prayer isn’t eloquence. It’s what rises when words fail. It’s forged in silence, desolation, dryness — where the surface collapses, and something deeper calls forth.
Questions for Reflection or Sharing:
- What part of yourself do you often try to throw out or avoid? What would it mean to “take account” of it instead?
- Is there a recent disruption in your life that may be opening the door to something sacred?
- Have you ever experienced prayer or connection at a time when it felt impossible?
- What does “the heart turning to stone” mean to you — and what has softened it?
- Where in your life right now might the divine be trying to come into birth?
- Can you imagine God wanting to meet you not in your strength, but in your rawness?
Guided Silence Prompt:
Let’s hold silence for a few minutes with Merton’s words: "True love and prayer are learned when the heart has turned to stone." Can I be still enough to let something divine be born in the place I least expect?”