An Indian Prayer

Copyright © 2005 Jordan White

 

O Gitchee Manitou,

You truly are my chief of chiefs.

I hold my hands up to you.

You show me your love in every way.

I see the sun rise up each morning,

Giving warming rays to me and to my kids.

I see the snowfall of winter, and even though it’s chilly,

I know that, melting, it fills the brook with water,

And brings the fish, not just to me, but to the bear, my brother.

 

I love our stories of the Circle of Life,

Your promise that when I die I’ll be reborn

In a way that suits your justice, not what I might have in mind.

I’m satisfied to know that you, the orderer of the sun,

Of the snow, and of the brook, of all I see and know,

Will direct my final days the same way,

Not just with justice, but with love.

 

The white men teach me to know their Jesus.

They tell me Jesus is my savior and redeemer.

Whether or not he is, I cannot know.

It’s just their words and their language that tell me so.

But, Gitchee Manitou, if you choose this man,

This Jesus,

Whether or not he is your son,

Whether or not he was sent from Heaven,

Or from Bethlehem,

I’ll accept him, and accept what you say he has done for me,

Because I trust you,

With my life and with my death.

 

O Gitchee Manitou,

Forgive me for what I do not understand of you.

I am a poor Indian,

But I know the part of you that means the most to me.

The white men say that “God is love.”

 

On this we all agree.