Kyrie
 
 Because we cannot be clever and honest
 
 and are inventors of things more intricate
 
 than the snowflake—Lord have mercy.
 
 
 
 Because we are full of pride
 
 in our humility, and because we believe
 
 in our disbelief—Lord have mercy.
 
 
 
 Because we will protect ourselves
 
 from ourselves to the point
 
 of destroying ourselves—Lord have mercy.
 
 
 
 And because on the slope to perfection,
 
 when we should be half-way up,
 
 we are half-way down—Lord have mercy.
 
 
 
 Gloria
 
 From the body at its meal’s end
 
 and its messmate whose meal is beginning,
 
                         Goria.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 From the early and late cloud, beautiful and deadly
 
 as the mushroom we are forbidden to eat,
 
                       Gloria.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 From the stars that are but as dew
 
 and the viruses outnumbering the star clusters,
 
                  Gloria.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 From those waiting at the foot of the helix
 
 for the rope-trick performer to come down,
 
                  Gloria.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Because you are not there
 
 When I turn, but are in the turning,
 
                         Gloria.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Because it is not I who look
 
 but I who am being looked through,
 
                           Gloria.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Because the captive has found the liberty
 
 that eluded him while he was free,
 
                        Gloria.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Because from belief that nothing is nothing
 
 it follows that there must be something,
 
                   Gloria.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Because when we count we do not count
 
 the moment between youth and age,
 
              Gloria.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 And because, when we are overcome,
 
 we are overcome by nothing,
 
               Gloria.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Credo
 
 I believe in God
 
 the Father (Is he married?)
 
 I believe in you, the almighty,
 
 who can do anything
 
 you wish. (Forget that irony
 
 of the imponderable.) Rid, therefore
 
 (if there are not too many
 
 of them), my intestine of the viruses against
 
 (in accordance with? Ah, horror!)
 
 your will are in occupation
 
 of its defences. I call
 
 on you, as I have done
 
 often before (why repeat,
 
 if he is listening?) to show
 
 you are master of secondary
 
 causation. (What has physics to do
 
 with the heart’s need?) Am I too late, then, with my language?
 
 Are symbols to be in future
 
 the credentials of our approach?
 
 (And how contemporary
 
 is the Cross, that long-bow drawn 
 
 against love?) My questions 
 
 accumulate in the knowledge
 
 it is words are the kiss of Judas
 
 that must betray you.
 
         (My
 
 
 
 
 
 parentheses are exhausted.) Almighty
 
 pseudonym, grant me at last,
 
 as the token of my belief,
 
 such ability to remain
 
 silent, as is the nearest to a reflection
 
 of your silence to which
 
 the human looking-glass may attain.
 
 
 
 Sanctus
 
 The Bunsen flame burns and is not consumed,
 
 and the scientist has not removed his shoes
 
 because the ground is not holy.
 
 
 
 And because the financiers’ sun
 
 is not Blake’s sun, there is a 
 
 word missing from the dawn chorus.
 
 
 
 Yet without subsidies poetry
 
 sings on, celebrating the heart
 
 and the ‘holiness of its affections’.
 
 
 
 And one listens and must not listen
 
 in vain for the not too clinical
 
 sanctus that is as the halo of its transplanting.
 
 
 
 Benedictus
 
 Blessed be the starved womb
 
 and the replete womb.
 
 
 
 Blessed the slug in the dew
 
 and the butterfly among the ash-cans.
 
 
 
 Blessed is the mind that brings forth good and bad
 
 and the hand that exonerates it.
 
 
 
 Blessed be the adder among its jewels 
 
 and the child ignorant of how love must pay.
 
 
 
 Blessed the hare who, in a round
 
 world, keeps the tortoise in sight.
 
 
 
 Blessed the cross warning: No through road,
 
 and that other Cross with its arms pointing both ways.
 
 
 
 Blessed the woman who is amused
 
 at Adam feeling for his lost rib.
 
 
 
 Blessed the clock with its hands over its face
 
 pretending it is midday, when it is midnight.
 
 
 
 Blessed be the far side of the Cross and the back
 
 of the mirror, that they are concealed from us.
 
 
 
 Agnus Dei
 
 No longer the Lamb
 
 but the idea of it.
 
 Can an idea bleed?
 
 On what altar
 
 does one sacrifice an idea?
 
 
 
 It gave its life
 
 for the world? No,
 
 it is we give our life
 
 for the idea that nourishes
 
 itself on the dust in our veins.
 
 
 
 God is love. Where
 
 there is no love, no God?
 
 There is only the gap between 
 
 word and deed we try
 
 narrowing with an idea.
 
 
 
 *R. S. Thomas, Collected Later Poems: 1988-2000 
(Tarset, Northumberland: Bloodaxe Books Ltd, 2004), 135-139.