Spectator competition winners: the Lord’s Prayer as a sonnet

In Competition No. 3290, you were invited to recast the Lord’s Prayer as a sonnet.

The late Frank Kermode reckoned that any schoolboy can write a sonnet, but this challenge was a deceptively simple one; as Nick MacKinnon observed: ‘the Lord’s Prayer is very efficient’.

Nonetheless, it drew a large and witty haul, in which some competitors chose to put more of their own spin on the original than others, making a pleasingly varied entry. Jennifer Zhou, Ann Drysdale, John Wood, George Simmers, David Silverman, Lachlan Rurlander and Simon May stood out, but the £20 prize goes to the seven below.

Our Father, Sister, Mother – gender-free
celestial deity, by all extolled,
it’s said one day you’ll visit us to see
if we conduct our lives as we’ve been told.
We pray for daily victuals – cost of living
has left us in a fine financial mess.
We’re certain that you’ll always be forgiving,
should we, mere weak and mortal souls, transgress.
We’ll follow in your steps: exonerate
our undeserving foes at any cost,
then spurn the things that tempt and fascinate
and tell the slimy Devil to get lost.
We’ll praise your sexual ambiguity
this day and into perpetuity.

Sylvia Fairley

Dear Parent, in the skies above sequestered,
How high we rate your great denomination!
Your perfect state? It really can’t be bested,
So bring it on – your Laws are inspiration.
Obey, say we, in these benighted groves,
As in Eternity; and round the clock
Give us some sustenance, non-Hovis loaves.
Excuse us too, when we are in the dock,
For we’ll excuse those foes who try to hurt us.
Don’t let us fall for baubles, special deals –
And save us from whatever might subvert us.
Here’s to your royal muscle: it appeals,
As does your aura. God, your thunder’s classic.
It’s everlasting, end of. Love the hassock.

Bill Greenwell

Our Father, who does up in heaven dwell,
hallowed thy name; the Lord, Jehovah, God,
thy kingdom come; love, peace, make all things well,
thy will be done; could You give those the nod?
Grant us, as we through daily routines plod,
our bread, forgiving all the sins we do,
as we forgive each hateful, witless clod
who makes us suffer.