Recovering Liturgical English

The Echo of Saints: Liturgical English as Inherited Glory

Introduction

In the year 2023, I set down some thoughts on the power of language to re-enchant the world. That piece was my first foray into this particular idea. Since, it has since grown in my mind like a tree taking root—slowly, persistently, until its branches reach in every direction. Though I have not written much on the subject in the intervening years, I have pondered it often, and now I see with greater clarity that the recovery of language is not merely an interesting avenue of thought but one of the keystones in the grand work of re-enchantment.

If you are navigating the same currents as I, you have doubtless encountered the phrase Liturgical Latin. But for those to whom this term is unfamiliar, let me illuminate.

Lingua Sacra: The Tongue Set Apart

For centuries, the Church’s worship has been voiced in a language lifted beyond the commonplace. In dim cathedrals and candle-lit chapels, Liturgical Latin emerged as more than a medium of communication – it became a sacred patrimony, a hallowed inheritance set apart from the speech of the streets. This Latin was no ordinary tongue of empire, but a consecrated idiom crafted for prayer and mystery. Scholars note that it bore a “sacral style” and a strongly hieratic character, one “widely removed from the… colloquial language” of everyday life. In other words, the Latin heard in the liturgy was deliberately unlike the Latin of the marketplace. It was language transfigured: words refined and ritualized over generations until they shone with timeless dignity. This ancient tongue, imbued with the theology and poetry of ages, carried the faith of peasants and princes alike on its melodic cadence. It united the worshipper not only with fellow believers across continents, but also with the saints and ancestors who had prayed in the same rhythmic syllables. Such is the historical and theological significance of Liturgical Latin – a language sacred by design, resonant with the sens du sacré (sense of the sacred) and set apart for the threshold of heaven.

With the waning of medieval Liturgical Latin after the Reformation, a new tongue emerged to take its place in English worship. This was Liturgical English, born in the 16th and 17th centuries through landmark texts like the Book of Common Prayer (first issued 1549, consolidated 1662) and the King James Bible (1611). These works were shaped by the theological currents of their time—the English Reformation’s push to make worship and Scripture accessible—and by deep literary roots in earlier tradition. Thomas Cranmer’s Book of Common Prayer (BCP) distilled the essence of centuries-old Latin liturgies into English, replacing “the several Latin volumes” of Catholic ritual with “a single English book” for clergy and laity​.

The result, as one historian notes, was “the most articulate and beautiful compendium of Christian prayers, services, and liturgies” in the English language​

Likewise, the King James Version (KJV) of the Bible—commissioned by King James I and produced by a committee of scholars—was intended to be a definitive English Bible “appointed to be read in Churches”​

Under royal patronage, the translators drew on a rich heritage: the KJV “was no sudden miracle but rather the harvesting or refining of the previous century’s experience” of Bible translation​

They compared earlier English Bibles (Tyndale, Coverdale, the Geneva Bible, etc.) and the original Hebrew and Greek, striving to carry over both the substance and the solemnity of Scripture. One scholar describes the 1611 Bible as “a mosaic of all that was best in the work of preceding translators,” polished until it shone with unified splendor​

In short, Liturgical English arose as the spiritual successor to Latin—an English vernacular elevated by history and faith to serve as the language of prayer, preaching, and praise for generations.

Verbum Anglicanum: The Rise of the Sacred Vernacular

From its inception, Liturgical English was consciously crafted as a lofty, sacral register distinct from everyday speech. The architects of the Prayer Book and KJV strove for a style that would convey reverence and majesty. Educated in the classical trivium and steeped in biblical languages, they blended influences from Scripture’s original tongues and the grand phrasing of classical rhetoric. The King James translators, for example, often followed the “syntactic contours of the Hebrew” Bible, producing English verses that achieved a cadence “at once lofty and stark,” as scholar Robert Alter observes​.

This meant retaining the austere, grand parallelism of Hebrew poetry and the sonorous gravity of Greek and Latin expressions, but casting them in clear English words. The resulting tone was elevated but not ornate – a dignified plainness. In the KJV we find simple, powerful diction (“let there be light”, “God is love”) couched in stately structure. This combination gave the language a “powerfully resonant dignity… that favors understatement, terseness, and a kind of homespun decorousness,” as one modern critic notes​

In the Prayer Book, Cranmer likewise favored measured, rhythmic prose over flowery embellishment, so that prayers are noble in their restraint. Both the Bible and liturgy were meant to be read aloud, so their language was tuned for oratory—high speech with “vigor and rhythmic beauty” that lifted it above common parlance​

Indeed, the KJV translators explicitly sought “smoothness of flow” and musicality in English, polishing earlier drafts until the phrasing achieved “rhythmic excellence” worthy of public worship​.

All of these stylistic choices set Liturgical English apart as a deliberately sacral dialect – one that could stand in continuity with the ancient Latin rite, yet be understood by the folk. It was English, but an English touched with archaism and poetry, as if deliberately a step removed from the mundane so as to speak of the divine.

Cadence of the Holy: The Sound of Worship

The elevated style of Liturgical English was not an aesthetic end in itself, but a means to convey the theology and mystery of the faith in a poetic register. By adopting a language just archaic enough to feel set apart, the Church hoped to inspire in worshippers a sense of the sacred—what C.S. Lewis called the “numinous” (the feeling of awe in the presence of something beyond comprehension). In the words of Archbishop Rowan Williams, this “sacred register of English” reminds us that “what we’re trying to talk about is not just the business of the house in the street; it is also strange and astonishing and terrifying.”​

The very otherness of the liturgical idiom—its antique turns of phrase and measured cadences signals that in church we address realities that transcend our day-to-day world. Phrases crafted with grand parallelism and balance (for example, “it is meet and right so to do” … “we praise thee, we bless thee, we worship thee”) act almost like incantations, tuning the hearts of the congregation to reverence. The poetic rhythms of the prayers and scriptures—from the rolling cadences of the Psalms to the mighty rhetorical climaxes of the great collects— were intended to “produce a persuasive effect” on the soul​.

Repeated aloud, they stick in the memory and shape the spiritual imagination. Generations of English speakers learned by heart the words of the 1662 Prayer Book and KJV Bible; their minds were furnished with images of “the Lord high and lifted up,” of “green pastures, still waters,” and “the valley of the shadow of death” in majestic English. Such language, heard weekly, helped re-enchant the world for believers clothing the truths of faith in an aura of mystery and beauty. It also created a common literary heritage. The Bible and Prayer Book formed an interweaving tapestry of allusion and echo, not only within church services but in English literature and music. Hymns, poems, and stories through the centuries drew on this well of liturgical language, reinforcing its hold on the cultural imagination​.

In essence, Liturgical English was crafted as a vehicle of glory—a tongue in which the very sound of the sentences could convey the grandeur of God and the drama of salvation, moving the heart in ways that plain speech might not. As with Tolkien’s high Elven tongues or Lewis’s ancient allegories, the elevated language was meant to rekindle a sense of wonder. It invited worshippers to step out of ordinary time into a sanctified realm where words themselves shimmer with the weight of divine meaning.

Linguistic Distinctives of Liturgical English

The linguistic profile of Liturgical English shows many deliberate archaisms and formal devices that mark it as a tongue of worship, not conversation. By the 17th century, everyday English had begun to evolve beyond the forms found in the Prayer Book and KJV—yet the translators and liturgists retained older forms to give the language a timeless quality. For instance, the use of second-person pronouns “thee, thou, thy, thine” (and “ye” for the plural) persisted, even though by 1611 these were “already becoming archaic” and yielding to the general “you” in common speech​

Likewise, verbs took antique endings: “-eth” and “-est” adorn verbs throughout (“speaketh”, “hast”), and the modal “shalt” stands where modern English would say “shall.” These choices were partly stylistic and partly a nod to accuracy – the old pronouns distinguished singular thee from plural you, reflecting nuances in the biblical languages​

Many other archaic words and phrases pepper the liturgical texts, from “vouchsafe” (grant) and “meet” (fitting) to “HOLY GHOST” (Holy Spirit) and “sundry” (various). Even where words themselves are simple, the grammar and word order often follow an elevated pattern. Sentences use inversion and balance for effect, as in “Silver and gold have I none” or “Blessed are the poor in spirit” – constructions that sound more solemn than a direct modern phrasing. Classical rhetorical devices abound: parallelism is perhaps the most pervasive. Biblical verses and prayer petitions mirror structures for emphasis and rhythm, echoing the Hebrew poetic style. For example, in the confession prayer “We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts”, the clauses align in a poetic sequence of acknowledgement. Repetition and alliteration also lend gravity and mnemonic power (one famous line: “earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust” from the burial rite, with its somber triple rhythm). The phonetic choices and sound textures of liturgical English were carefully considered to enhance its beauty when spoken or sung. Long, open vowels and soft consonants often dominate phrases meant to be comforting (“peace that passeth all understanding”), while harder tones mark words of warning or majesty (“trumpet”, “judgment”, “King of Kings”). Importantly, this traditional idiom remained remarkably consistent for centuries. Generations of Anglicans continued to worship with “prayer book English”, a relatively unchanging linguistic register even as conversational English moved on​.

This continuity gave the liturgical language a feeling of eternal verity – the sense that holy words do not fall prey to fashion. In sum, through archaism, elevated grammar, and poetic device, Liturgical English created a mode of speech that was instantly recognizable as sacred speech. It was English made richly strange – familiar enough to understand, yet removed from the vulgar tongue just enough to suggest the “strange and astonishing” mystery of God​.

Such language acted as a bridge from the mortal to the divine, allowing even common folk to “worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness” in their own tongue, with words that ring with the cadence of eternity.

Yet in the last century, this continuity of sacred language suffered an abrupt rupture. As the liturgy shifted into vernacular tongues, many feared that something essential had been lost – that the everyday words of modern English lacked the grandeur and grace to bear the weight of divine worship. The new translations, intended to make prayer accessible, at times sounded thin and ordinary, “severely wanting… in beauty and sacrality,” as observers lamented. In the wake of the Latin retreat, the faithful inherited a liturgical speech that often felt disenchanted, bereft of the old magic that once made the walls of cathedrals tremble with awe. But where some saw an end, others glimpsed a calling—the need to recover not only Latin itself, but to fashion our English into its spiritual successor – into a tongue worthy of the same reverence and splendor.

Conclusion

Just as the early Church took the common Latin and elevated it into a vessel of sacrality, so can we shape a form of English that wears the mantle of sacredness. This Liturgical English would not be the casual idiom of our sidewalks and screens, but a high English—deliberate in its dignity and beauty, seasoned with archaic pronouns and scriptural echoes—English transfigured for prayer. Such speech, though in our native dialect, would be a different English, one that signals we are stepping into a holy time and space. It would stand apart from daily chatter as clearly as a carved stone altar stands apart from a kitchen table. Indeed, nurturing a “properly hieratic liturgical English” alongside Latin’s revival would be of great benefit, allowing the vernacular itself to become a bearer of transcendence. In this way, English can function as Latin’s heir—a treasured patrimony but extending its spirit into a new age.

In crafting a sacral English for worship, we hearken back to an old intuition: that certain words, by their very sound and cadence, can lift the mind and heart to the realm of the divine. The goal is not archaism for its own sake, but the re-enchantment of our praise—a reconnection with the beauty that once enchanted the world when “the Word was heard with wonder.” This vision finds a deep resonance with insights from writers like J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, who understood the power of language to unlock imagination and convey hidden truths. They knew that words could be as rich as incense, as sharp as swords, and as luminous as stained glass. In a similar spirit, a well-wrought liturgical English can help restore our sense of the sacred in a disenchanted age. When our prayers sound sacred, the world itself begins to recover its shimmer: the mundane is suffused with the memory of mystery. Such language does more than communicate ideas – it sings and soars, echoing the music of ages past while speaking to the soul of today. It creates continuity without calcifying into mere nostalgia, balancing an elevated tone with an inviting clarity that draws in the modern listener. In short, this renewed liturgical English seeks to be “more in keeping with the historical Catholic tradition of hieratic liturgical languages”, even as it whispers to our contemporary hearts.

Thus, to recover Liturgical English is not to reject the vernacular, but to baptize it in the wellspring of sacred tradition. It is to remember that language can be a ladder between earth and heaven—each rung a well-chosen word, each phrase a step toward the Divine. We will journey through this linguistic restoration, exploring how sacramental language shaped our past and how its deliberate revival can sanctify our future. In doing so, I hope to show that the very words of our worship matter profoundly. They carry the power to deepen our awe, bind us to our forebears, and perhaps even, in a humble way, to re-enchant the world. Through recovering a liturgical English rich in dignity and beauty, we seek to let our common tongue once again speak of uncommon things, awakening the sense of the sacred in all who listen.