Praying through pain

A couple of weeks ago I was asked what prayers I'd suggest for someone enduring terminal illness. The prayers which I suggested were the final prayers from Compline, the ancient night-time service. For many of us, much of the experience is dark and like night, waiting for the dawning of the new day. In my old church we used to say Compline, with reading the Gospel accounts of Christ's passion, in Holy Week. The church would mainly be in darkness, with just enough light for the few of us to listen and pray together. The readings would always end with Jesus dying. We would wait for the dawn to come.

These are the prayers:

Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Be present, O merciful God, and protect us through the silent hours of this night, so that we, who are wearied by the changes and chances of this fleeting world, may repose upon thy eternal changelessness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Look down, O Lord, from thy heavenly throne, illuminate the darkness of this night with thy celestial brightness, and from the children of light banish the deeds of darkness; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, who at this evening hour didst rest in the sepulchre, and didst thereby sanctify the grave to be a bed of hope to thy people: make us so to abound in sorrow for our sins, which were the cause of thy passion, that when our bodies lie in the dust, our souls may live with thee: who livest and reignest with the Father and the Holy Spirit, one God world without end. Amen.

Visit, we beseech thee, O Lord, this place, and drive far from it all the snares of the enemy; let thy holy angels dwell herein to preserve us in peace; and may thy blessing be upon us evermore; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Then comes a response which is from Psalm 4.8, which, when we were children, we used to hear every night when my mother tucked us in bed. 

We will lay us down in peace and take our rest;
For it is thou, Lord, only, that makest us dwell in safety.

This is a good week (as good as any can be!) to be ill, I think, because we're especially aware of how Jesus shared our human nature in all its weakness, and even in excruciating pain. He knows absolutely how dark the night can be - even more than us, because it was blacker for him. And his promise is, "I will never leave or abandon you." The best thing about the week, of course, is that its end turns into Easter Sunday. Pow! Morning comes. "Christ is risen. Hallelujah." "Hallelujah. He is risen indeed!"

Jane and I, last weekend, went down to see her parents in South Devon. On the way, we stopped to put flowers on my parents' and aunts' grave in Wiltshire. I'd forgotten the inscription at the foot of the stone: "Awaiting a joyful resurrection". The grave has become "a bed of hope to thy people" - because of Jesus. Thank you, God.