You’ve heard it. You’ve probably said it. If you’ve ever sat through a wedding, a funeral, or a Sunday service, those final words of the Lord’s Prayer—"for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever"—feel like the natural, heavy-hitting finish. It’s the grand finale. It’s the "mic drop" of Christian liturgy. But here is the thing: if you open a modern Bible to Matthew 6, those words aren't there.
Well, they might be in a footnote. They’re definitely not in the oldest manuscripts.
This isn't some conspiracy. It’s a fascinating bit of textual history that actually tells us a lot about how we pray and how the early church tried to make sense of Jesus' teachings. People get weirdly defensive about this, but honestly, the story behind these eleven words is way more interesting than the debate over whether they "belong" in the Bible or not.
The Mystery of the Missing Doxology
Bible scholars call this section a "doxology." It’s basically a short hymn of praise. If you look at the Gospel of Matthew in the King James Version (KJV), the prayer ends with the kingdom and the power and the glory. But if you pick up an ESV, NIV, or the Catholic RSV-CE, you’ll notice the prayer usually ends abruptly with "deliver us from evil" or "the evil one."
Why the change?
Basically, the earliest and most reliable Greek manuscripts, like the Codex Sinaiticus and Codex Vaticanus from the 4th century, don't include it. It just isn't there. When the KJV was translated in 1611, the scholars relied on a group of later manuscripts known as the Textus Receptus. These were much younger, dating mostly from the Byzantine era. It seems that somewhere along the line, a scribe or a monk probably added the phrase to make the prayer feel more complete for public worship.
Think of it like a "director’s cut" of a movie. The original version was lean and punchy. The later version added some flair for the audience.
Where Did the Words Come From?
If Jesus didn't say them (or at least, if Matthew didn't record them), did someone just make them up out of thin air? Not really. The early Christians were deeply Jewish. They didn't innovate in a vacuum. If you look at the Old Testament, specifically 1 Chronicles 29:11, you’ll find King David praying something that sounds suspiciously familiar. David says: "Yours, O Lord, is the greatness and the power and the glory and the victory and the majesty, for all that is in the heavens and in the earth is yours. Yours is the kingdom, O Lord."
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It’s almost a direct lift.
The early church took David's royal prayer and tacked it onto the end of Jesus' prayer. By the time the Didache—a sort of "Christianity 101" manual for the late 1st or early 2nd century—was written, a version of this doxology was already being used. The Didache version actually omits "the kingdom," saying only "for yours is the power and the glory forever."
It was a liturgical evolution. People liked the rhythm. They liked the way it shifted the focus from our needs (daily bread, forgiveness) back to God’s status.
Why Catholics and Protestants Do It Differently
You’ve probably noticed the awkward silence in a room when a Catholic and a Protestant pray together. The Protestant keeps going—"for thine is the kingdom..."—while the Catholic stops at "deliver us from evil." Then, a moment later, the Catholic priest might add the doxology after a brief prayer called the Embolism.
This happens because the Catholic Mass maintains the ancient separation between the prayer itself and the liturgical response. For centuries, the Roman Rite didn't use the doxology at all. It wasn't until the liturgical reforms of 1970 that it was officially brought back into the Mass as a separate response. Protestants, following the lead of the KJV and later the English Book of Common Prayer, treated it as part of the "official" text of the prayer for 400 years.
It’s a minor difference, but it’s one of those things that makes you realize how much tradition shapes what we think of as "scripture."
The Weight of the Words
Let’s look at what these words actually imply. They aren't just filler.
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The Kingdom (basileia) is about authority. In the Roman world, where this was written, "the kingdom" belonged to Caesar. To say it belonged to a crucified carpenter’s God was a political statement. It was subversive. It was basically saying, "You think you’re in charge, but you’re not."
The Power (dynamis) is where we get the word "dynamite." It’s not just the right to rule; it’s the ability to get things done. It’s raw, creative, and redemptive energy.
The Glory (doxa) is about weight and reputation. It’s the "heaviness" of God’s presence.
When you combine them, you’re creating a wall against the anxieties mentioned earlier in the prayer. You’re asking for food and forgiveness, sure, but the doxology reminds you who you’re asking. It’s a psychological reset.
Is it Wrong to Say Them?
Some purists get bent out of shape about this. They argue that if it isn't in the earliest Greek manuscripts, we shouldn't be saying it. They feel like we’re adding to the Word of God.
On the flip side, most theologians—even the very conservative ones—don't see it as a "false" addition. Even if Jesus didn't utter those exact words in that exact order on the Mount, the sentiment is 100% biblical. It’s "canon-adjacent." It’s like singing a chorus to a song that everyone knows; just because the songwriter didn't write it in the first draft doesn't mean it doesn't belong in the performance.
Honestly, the kingdom and the power and the glory serves a vital purpose in the human psyche. We have a hard time ending things abruptly. We need a "coda." We need to land the plane.
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The Manuscript Evidence (For the Nerds)
If you really want to get into the weeds, look at the Codex Washingtonianus or the Uncial 0170. These are later than the big ones, and they start to show the doxology creeping in. Some versions have just "the power and the glory," while others have the full trinity of kingdom, power, and glory.
Textual critics like Bruce Metzger, who was basically the "godfather" of New Testament Greek scholarship in the 20th century, pointed out that the variation in the manuscripts is the smoking gun. When a phrase appears in five different ways in five different early copies, it usually means it started as a marginal note by a priest and eventually got moved into the main text by a tired scribe.
This doesn't make the Bible "unreliable." It actually shows how much the early church loved this prayer. They used it so much they couldn't help but add their own notes of praise to it.
Making It Actionable: How to Use This
Knowing the history is great, but how does it change your Tuesday morning?
- Check your footnotes. Next time you’re reading the Gospels, look at the bottom of the page. You’ll see notes about "other ancient authorities." Pay attention to those. They give you a window into how the text evolved and how hard scholars work to get back to the original words.
- Separate the Prayer from the Liturgy. If you’re leading a group or praying privately, realize that "Amen" after "deliver us from evil" is actually the original ending. Try stopping there once in a while. It feels different. It leaves the "deliverance" hanging in the air, emphasizing our need for help.
- Study 1 Chronicles 29. If you like the doxology, go to the source. Read David's prayer. It’s longer, more poetic, and gives you a much bigger picture of what those words—kingdom, power, glory—meant to the people who first used them.
- Embrace the nuance. Don't be the person who gets into an argument at a Bible study about "missing verses." Instead, be the person who can explain why the variation exists. It’s an opportunity to talk about how the Bible was preserved, not a reason to doubt it.
The kingdom and the power and the glory might have been a later addition, but it has survived for nearly two thousand years for a reason. It’s a beautiful, resonant way to acknowledge that after all our asking and all our worrying about daily bread and temptation, the universe doesn't revolve around us.
It’s a graceful way to bow out.