dwell in my soul, do not abandon me, for [entho phenen thropiōth] commands you.' And gaze at the god, bellowing long, and greet him thus: 'Lord, hail,

The plea to Life ends the way these prayers always do — with leverage. 'Do not abandon me, for [entho phenen thropiōth] commands you.' Even to his own aliveness the initiate speaks with a name in reserve: a higher power that orders Life to stay put. The whole magical cosmos runs on this chain of command, name compelling name; nothing, not even the life in your own chest, is asked without a citation of authority behind the asking. And then the register lifts. The frightened, straining, bellowing body composes itself and turns to the god directly, and the last great speech of the rite begins with the simplest word of address in Greek: kýrie, chaîre, 'Lord, hail.' It is the same 'hail' he gave the maidens and the bull-gods, but now aimed at the one they all serve. Everything so far — the elements, the doors, the fourteen powers — has been the approach; this is the audience. The man stands at the pole of heaven, life pinned in place by a name, gazing into a face of light, and says hello to God.