THE HUNDRED VERSES

80. Thrills and trembles my frame;
Hands are lifted on high;
Here at Thy fragrant feet,
Sobbing and weeping I cry;
Falsehood forsaking, I shout,
"Victory, victory, praise!
Lord of my life, these clasped hands
Worship shall bring Thee always.

81. Indra or Vishnu or Brahm,
Their divine bliss crave not I;
I seek the love of Thy saints,
Though my house perish thereby.
To the worst hell I will go,
So but Thy grace be with me.
Best of all, how could my heart
Think of a god beside Thee?

82. Though like Thy saints I seem, 'tis but the acting of a part.
Yet wondrous swift I run to reach the heaven where Thou art.
O hill of gold and precious gems, grant in Thy grace to me
A heart to melt, lord of my life, in ceaseless love to Thee.

83. I have no fear of births, but quake at thought that I must die.
E'en heav'n to me were naught; for earth's whole empire what care I?
O Siva wreathed with honeyed blossoms, "When shall come the morn
When Thou wilt grant Thy grace to me?" I cry with anguish torn.

84. The sky, earth, wind, the light, our very flesh and life art Thou,
Being art Thou, non-being too, Thou king, who see'st how
Men dance like puppets with their foolish thoughts of 'I' and 'Mine,'
While Thou the cords dost pull. What words can tell Thy praise divine?

85. At sound of cries like this, "O Bull-rider whose spreading hair
The falling stream receives! "Heaven's Lord," true devotees there were,
Whose love-thrilled heart broke forth, like stopped-up rivers rushing down.
Yet Thou didst choose no one of them, but me to be Thine own.
And yet my body will not turn from heel to head one heart
To melt in love for Thee, one eye to shed the tears that smart
In swelling floods. Ah! wretched that I am, who only moan!
My two eyes are unfeeling wood, my heart a great dead stone!

86. Amid the fruits of deeds I lay. Thou didst thyself reveal
With words of comfort saying "Come, I will destruction deal
To evil fruit of deeds," and thus thou mad'st me all Thy slave.
And yet I stand as if a statue made of steel, nor rave,
Nor sing, nor cry, nor wail--woe's me--nor in my spirit faint
With deep desire, so dull am I. O being ancient,
Thou art beginning, Thou art end: tell me, how can I be
So dead at heart? The end if this I do not dare to see.