and hurling thunders and lightnings and the cast of earthquakes and thunderbolts upon the tribes of the impious — but to me, being devout and god-fearing, [grant] health and wholeness of body, keenness of hearing and sight, and tranquility in the good hours of this present day,

The petition turns on a single word, emoì dé — 'but to me.' The same seven gods who rain brontás, astrapás, earthquakes and thunderbolts on 'the tribes of the impious' are asked to sort the petitioner onto the other side of the ledger: not dyssebḗs but eusebḗs and theosebḗs, not impious but devout and god-fearing. Ancient prayer is rarely shy about this; you remind the powers, out loud, which category you belong to. And then notice what the newly-immortalized man actually asks for. Not thrones, not secret knowledge — health, a whole body, good hearing and eyesight, and ataraxía, tranquility. That last word is the summit of Greek philosophy's ethics, the Epicurean and Skeptic name for the untroubled soul, the aim of a whole life's discipline — and here it is simply requested, a grace to be handed down by bull-faced sky-gods along with sound ears. The rite has just made a man deathless, and his wish list is a good doctor's and a philosopher's combined: to see and hear well, to be whole, and to not be afraid. It is unexpectedly, movingly ordinary.