My God is not a chiselled stone,
Or lime-block, so clear and bright:
Nor is he cleaned with tamarind.
Like images of bronze.
I cannot worship such as these,
But loudly make my boast
That in my heart I place the feet,
The golden feet of God.
If He be mine what can I need?
My God is everywhere!
Within, beyond man's highest word,
My God existeth still.
In sacred books, in darkest night,
In deepest, bluest sky,
In those who know the truth, and in
The faithful few on earth; —
My God is found in all of these,
But can the Deity
Descend to images of stone
Or copper dark or red?
Whene'er wind blows or compass points,
God’s light doth stream and shine,
Yet see yon fool — beneath his arm
He bears the sacred roil.
How carefully he folds the page
And draws the closing string!
See how he binds the living book
That not a leaf escape!
Ah! Yes; the truth should fill his heart,
But 'tis beneath his arm.
To him who “knows," the sun is high;
To this, 'tis starless night.
If still, oh sinful man, with ash
Thou dost besmear thy face,
Or bathest oft, that thus thy soul
May cast awray its load,
Thou knowest naught of God, nor of
Regeneration's work.
Your mantras, what are they? The Veds
Are burdened with their weight.
If knowledge be not thine, thou art
As one in deep mid-stream,
A stream so wide that both the banks
Are hidden from thine eyes.
Alas! How long did I adore
The chiselled stone, and serve
An image made of lime or brass
That’s cleaned with tamarind.
Panatattu (10th Century A. D.) India
Translated by Charles Gover
Source: Folk-songs of Southern India by Charles E. Gover, Higginsbotham & Co., 1871
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