Lord God of Hosts, bring us back. Raise up a holy host of victims that are wholly yours. Conform your bride to the perfect image of true love – that dark hour in which the father’s broken heart caused weeping from the heavenly hosts.
Raise up an army of feetwashers, not swordbearers. You, who command armies and all the universe, humbled yourself to come as a small host and to come inside our broken and wounded hearts – shabby mangers unfit for your glorious head.
Hosts of Angels gather for the sacrament of remembrance and thanksgiving. Remind us daily, with the host made body, of the day you laid down your life as victim for us all.
What can we offer to the one who gave up everything? Everything good is a gift from you. I offer my brokenness and the misery I have accumulated from my own sin. We offer our lives in Thanksgiving. We offer ourselves as hosts. Through this, our daily bread, transform our hearts into the perfect hosts in which your spirit can dwell. Break us to make us whole and holy.
She who was the most perfect host, pray for us.