Hymns and Prayers

Prayers to Wepwawet
| Prayer to Sekhmet for Protection

Funerary Prayer to Hethert | Prayer to Set for Assistance

Kemetic Table Prayer | Various Prayers & Hymns

Other Contributions:

From Isis to Osiris ~ Denise Dumars | Mongolian Shaman Prayers
Borrowed Linens ~ Coyote

Composed by Nakhtdreshetiu of the House of Netjer

Wepwawet, Opener of the Way,
Bless Your coming and going.
Open the way for me and those I love
And close the way for those
Who would seek to do me harm.
Wepwawet, Opener of the Way,
Bless Your coming and going.

This prayer is a good, general protection heka (Egyptian magic), and also works well to relieve restless sleep and nightmares when said at bedtime.

A prayer to Wepwawet to open the way for a particular request:
(in the Kemetic language, based on a song composed by Nakhtdreshetiu)

Wepwawet, wep em wawet,
Dua iyiek, dua peretek
Wepwawet, wep em wawet,
Wep merut ibi.

Wepwawet, open the way,
Praise Your coming, praise Your going.
Wepwawet, open the way.
Open the way to my heart's desire.

Composed by Senut for a soldier stationed in Iraq

Lady of the Burning Sands,
Sekhmet, Mistress of Terror!
May no enemy find me,
May no harm approach me,
Your sacred fire surrounds me,
No evil can withstand Your Eye.

Composed by Senut for Las Cruces Pagan Pride Day

Hethert, Lady of the Beautiful West,
Receive [name] in the Field of Reeds.*
Comfort [him/her] with Your turquoise tears,
Renew [him/her] in Your golden arms,
May [s/he] live a million years
In the radiance of Your love.

*The Field of Reeds is the entrance to the Duat, or Otherworld, that precedes the Beautiful West where the Akhu (ancestors) reside. Hethert is sometimes pictured in her Solar Cow form emerging from the Field of Reeds with tears streaming down Her face in sympathy for the dead.

Composed by Senut for a children's project

Mighty Set, Lord of Storms,
Who slays Apep,
No evil may stand before You.
Ruler of the Red Land, hear my prayer:
I ask for Your help,
I come in Your service;
I am Your strong and shining spear.

KEMETIC TABLE PRAYER, to be said before meals and over offerings:

Hotep Netjer em shabu en emenet her iabyt.
(ho-TEP neh-CHER em shah-BOO en eh-MEH-net hair ee-YAH-beet)

Translation: May God be satisfied with the repast (or offering) to the right and to the left.

The following are my own compositions in tribute to the Names, and a memorial poem for a beloved pet who crossed over into the realm of the Netjeri:


March, 1999

Lord of the gentle night, of comforting darkness,
Guiding light and faithful companion,
Turn not Your face away from me.

Secret was Your birth,
Silent are Your feet upon Your path,
For no one knows the hour of Your coming.
The perfume of Your arrival is as a cool breeze from Punt,
The welcome of your voice, sweet music
From a golden lyre.
You stand between the worlds in the mists of Time,
Before the twin pillars of Life and Death.
Turn not Your face away from me.

Lord of the Crossroads, I hail You.
Guide me in life as in death,
May I walk in truth and balance,
That my heart may be pure and light upon the scale.
Turn not Your face away from me,
Yinepu, beloved Lord.


June 6, 1999

Lady of Turquoise,
Lady of Light,
Path of my ba to Eternity,
I see Your golden face in the East,
Bathed in the glory of Ra.
You carry His wisdom to all who seek You.
I see You in the West,
Golden arms outstretched
To receive those who are weary of life.

Mother of All, Radiant One,
Comforter, Nurturer, Healer,
Speak to me,
Let me hear the rich music of Your voice,
May Your Spirit enter me when I shake Your sistrum.
Let each day I live be a dance in honor of You,
Let all who look upon me see Your beautiful face.

Blessed are those who bless Your Name,
For You will lift them up into Light and Love.


Composed on "The Day of Her Rage in Tjemehu"
March 29, 2000

O Mistress of Terror,
Red Lady,
Right Eye of Ra,
Turn not Your anger against us.

We bend our arms to You,
We fall on our bellies before Your red rage,
No evil can withstand the fire of Your righteousness.
Turn not Your anger against us.

The weak cry out to You,
The sick pray for healing,
The wronged plead for justice.
Turn not Your anger against us.

Great is the love of Your people for You.
Behold, we pour cool water and oil for You,
We offer red beer to slake Your thirst for blood,
Turn not Your anger against us.

O Mighty Sekhmet,
Queen of Cities,
Whose strength is without contender,
May You ascend to Ra with our prayers,
Riding the hot winds of Tjemehu,
Roaring Your demands for Truth,
Retribution, and the return of Ma'at.
Turn not Your anger against us.


Composed for the Beautiful Feast of the Valley, 2007

Praise to the Akhu, the Blessed Dead,
Hail the Shining Ones, my ancestors.
You who have gone before me,
I thank you for who I am
And who I will become.

Praise to the Akhu in the Beautiful West,
Appearing as gold in the Belly of Nut,
May I honor your names
And wear your mantle with respect.
You go where Gods cannot.

Praise to the Akhu, faithful companions
Standing in both worlds,
Your wisdom guides me if I but ask.
Behold and accept my offerings,
May they be pleasing to you.

Praise to the Akhu, loyal guardians,
Protect me on my path,
Drive out evil before me
And light my way,
Until we meet again in the Field of Reeds.



I can feel the texture of his fur
When I look at his picture—
Coarse and mottled on the surface,
With a charcoal, downy undercoat;
And the white-striped groove between his eyes
I used to rub, then playfully pull his dingo ears
And kiss the side of his snout with its silly underbite.
When I hugged him tightly he'd growl,
Harmlessly, like an old man protesting
Too much shown affection.

He had a manageable illness,
One that many humans have.
But when he fell suddenly, gasping,
And his tongue turned white, we knew
That Something fixed its gaze on him
From empty sockets. Still,
We hoped like little children that it wasn't true—
A bogeyman that could be banished
By a parent's smile.
He wasn't old enough—or so we thought,
And so it always seems.

On the cold, tiled floor of a vet's back room
He went peacefully.
Just stopped breathing.
(Poor comfort to me even now
In selfish memory.)
Sometimes I think if I had only called out:
"Grover! Grover!" and clapped my hands,
He'd have come back to us as he always did.
But no, not really... perhaps?

For death is always hardest on those left behind,
Standing in the lighted doorway, wondering
What siren sings to them from darkness.

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Other contributions...

Isis to Osiris
By Denise Dumars

Your skin was never green!
It seems to me that it was tawny,
Lightly freckled from the sun.
I remember best its taste:
salt and the scent of musk.
You are so completely gone -
to the winds, the earth,
the Nile and its damned fishes.
I remember your hair a dark cloud
around my face.
The day they crowned you king
and shaved your head, I cried.

In the spring when the Nile floods,
enriches the land with black silt
I lie face down on its banks and imagine
that I absorb some of your love
from the fertile ground.

I can feel your eyes on me
in the midday heat, the sky so pale
with sun I squint and think I see
the curve of your exquisite lips
above the horizon,
lush as an oasis your kiss
and I trace the imagined line
of your jaw, your soft dark beard,
in my reverie.

In my lonely chamber I have
conjured you so many times
that others think me mad.
Horus, then, I give the world as living proof
that you have come to me in dreams,
in the midst of magicks so terrible
my soul was made mortgage
for their secrets.

Was it worth it?

Oh yes, and yes again.
My palms are hennaed as a bride's
waiting for our reunion
in the afterlife
where I imagine you wait,
and I wait, and I remember.

From the Newsletter of the Isis Ancient Cultures & Religion Society
Winter/Spring 2003, Vol. 2, No.1
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Preparing the Altar
Translation of Khorchin Shaman's songs
Inner Mongolia

Place the High Table in the center,
O ancestors.
The sacred light is bright.

The followers kneel to pray,
O ancestors,

With honor we call to you.
We have set you a throne with a fine tiger skin,
O ancestors,
Light one stick of incense.

The followers knee to pray,
O ancestors,
The rattling drum is sounding.

God's Descent
Translation from the Mongolian

Round the three-sided tent
He has circled three times.
Counting 33 tent poles,
He is now descending.

Round the four-walled guest-house
He has circled four times,
Counting 48 rafters.
Oh come and be with us!

Oh Lord, come with light!
Light shines on my hair,
Through my body and joinings,
The Lord is flowing into me!

The Lord is descending down as a mist.
A halo is forming over my head.
Lord borrows my body:
I carry the Lord.

Thanks to Amu Gulong, Hurelbaatav, Ouzuchimeg and Kevin Stuart.
Text provided by Marguerite E. Garner, ©2000.

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Borrowed Linens
By Coyote

I had a dream last night
That I do not understand,
For though I know I was asleep,
I was, in the dream, awake...

I found myself in a golden hall
Which I followed, into a room of thrones
And on these thrones were seated gods;
They waited, but not for me.
I heard the sound of chains.
From the shadows where I stood
I saw a jackal-headed god
Bringing a prisoner, bound and chained
And the gods did not stir, amazed.

One among them held up his hand
And when there was quiet said, "Anpu,
How is it you bring righteous dead to us
In thrall in such a way?"
And Anpu hung his head and spoke,
"Righteous is this one no more,
For great is all the woe he has wrought
upon the western lands.
Many is the man and maid
Whose life has felt his venomed sting
And thus I mourn, great Wesir:
He is an akh* no more."

Even as I saw the hungry gleam
In eyes of lion-crocodile,
I sensed, even as an intruder
There was more here than it seemed…
For a gathering is gods is unto
A thousand-sided gemstone,
Of which my mortal eyes could bear
The sight of only one.

The Dead God looked upon his charge
Even as Anpu unbound him
And called him by name, though one
I could not understand, and asked,
"Child, why have you done these things?"
The soul's reply was soundless roar
Of madness, hate, and hopelessness,
And images ransacked my mind
Looting for its treasures:
Mummy-unwrapping parties for the rich,
A paper-industry built on stolen linens,
Preserved bodies, torn apart in contempt:
Thousands of souls defiled…
And last insult, as cordwood used,
Desecrated by railway men:
"These peasants don't burn worth a damn!
Someone toss in a king!"

The silence hung like an iron shroud.
First spake the lion-crocodile:
"You know the law… he is mine!"
Her tail lashed as she spoke.
"Peace, Ammit", said great Wesir,
And called out through the call,
"Look well, all assembled here.
Is there one who will speak for him?"

"I will," said a winged maid
With crown beplumed and clothed in light,
"It is not meet to punish one
who hath bourne such pain."
"It is well," said great Wesir,
"To speak thus for your beloved, Ma'at.
Look well, all assembled here.
Is there another who will speak for him?"

"I will," said a warrioress
Whose head was as a lion untamed,
"For when he hath wept vengeance's tears
I have tasted salt."
"It is well," said great Wesir,
"To speak thus for your child, Sekhmet.
Look well, all assembled here.
Is there a third who will speak for him?"

"I will," I heard myself say
and stepped forth from the shadows.
And all assembled in that hall
Looked upon my brazenness.
"What kinship do you claim with him?"
Asked great Wesir from his throne
And at that moment, I wondered if
I, too, might be on trial.
"Many has there been the time,"
I said, striving to speak my heart,
"When pain and wrath and injustice
Led me to cry revenge.
Yet in my rage I could have glutted
On all before me and not been sated,
Yet for someone who spoke for me
And helped me turn aside.
It is not blood nor birth nor even soul
That has me claim this kinship.
It is his sins that make us kin:
This man is my brother."

"It is well," said great Wesir,
"To speak thus for your brother.
Let him therefore be bathed and cleansed
Within the Well of Souls."
And as the soul was led away
Wesir said, "This is not the first
That we have had to heal this way
Among the righteous dead.
This does not speak well of men
Nor of nations of the earth.
Leave us, for you are living yet
And we have much to consider."

And when I woke, though I could see
That it was on my bed I lay,
And I could see the walls and door
That marked this as my room,
It felt as though I had lain
Upon the stones of a temple floor:
Welcome, as any beggar might be,
In sheets of borrowed linen.

*Akh - Kemetic (ancient Egyptian) word for an existing soul (transl: "shining one"), presumably one who has been "justified" or passed through Judgment.

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