Irmos: The angel made the furnace of the venerable youth, and the Chaldeans, the scorching command of God, exhorted the tormentor to cry out: Blessed art thou, O God of our fathers.
I do not dare to look up to heaven, the accursed one, from my evil deeds, but, like a tax collector, I cry out to you: cleanse me, a sinner and Pharisaic hypocrisy, deliver me, O God of the fathers, the only one of good heart.
You have broken my mind as a robber, and left me with sores, barely alive, of my sins, but heal me, O Fathers God.
Glory to the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.
The barrenness of my much-sick soul is in vain; be patient still, O Christ, and do not sow me like that cursed fig tree, O God of the fathers.
And now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.
Give me help, through Your prayers, O All-Pure One, reasons that reflect harsh circumstances.