Kind-hearted Tyche, granter of fortune good or ill,
you hold in your hands prosperity, to give
or to withhold. You throw the bones, you spin the wheel,
you cut the cards before each game we play; Tyche,
your hand is in each chance we take, each hunch we follow.
We make our choices, Tyche, by whim or with care;
we plan our lives, we attempt to create the best
of possible outcomes; we reckon the odds and place
our bets. We do what we can, goddess, to craft
our world as we would wish it, and yet
so much of life is not ours to plan, so much
of choice is blind or faulty, so much of
what is, is unclear or unknown–by all our will
and all our skill we cannot form our world entire.
Tyche, blessed one, where our own efforts cannot
prevail, your might can tip the scale. Your favor,
goddess, can enrich our lives; its lack can break us.
Tyche, compassionate one, I praise and honor you.