For everything, for everything, O Lord,
I thank Thee -
for the secret pangs of passion,
the poisoned fangs of kisses,
the bitter taste
for the revenge of foes
and for the calumny of friends,
and for the waste
of a soul's fervor burning in a desert,
and for all things that have deceived me here.
But please, O Lord,
henceforth let matters be arranged
in such a way
that I need not keep thanking Thee
Mikhail Lermontov, 1840, tr. Vladimir Nabokov in Verses and Versions, p. 289
I don't think that's exactly the right spirit of the holiday. I'll try something more traditional tomorrow.