AT THE DUSK OF the early dawn, Ramananda, the great Brahmin
Teacher, stood in the sacred water of the Ganges waiting long for the cleansing touch of the stream to flow over his heart.
He wondered why it was not granted him this morning.
The sun rose and he prayed for the divine light to bless his
thoughts and open his life to truth.
But his mind remained dark and distraught.
The sun climbed high over the sal forest and the fishermen's
boats spread their sails, the milk-maids with milk-vessels on head went to the market.
The Guru started up, left the water and walked along the sand
amidst weeds and rushes and clamorous saliks, busy digging holes for their nests on the slope of the river bank.
He reached the lane which took him to the evil-smelling village
of the tanners where lean dogs were crunching bones at the wayside and kites swooped down upon casual morsels of flesh.
Bhajan sat before his cottage door under an ancient tamarind tree
working at camel's saddle.
His body shrank with awe when he saw the Guru fresh from his bath
come to the unclean neighbourhood and the grizzly old tanner bowed himself down to the dust from a distance.
Ramananda drew him to his heart and Bhajan, his eyes filled with
tears, cried in dismay, 'Master, why bringest upon thee such pollution!'
And Master said, 'While on my way to my bath I shunned your
village and thus my heart missed the blessings of the Ganges whose mother's love is for all.
'Her own touch comes down at last upon me at the touch of your
body with mine and I am purified.
'I cried this morning to the Sun, "The divine Person who is in
thee is also within me but why do I not meet thee in my mind?"
I have met him at this moment when his light descends upon your
forehead as well as on mine, and there is no need for me today to go to the temple.'

সতিমির রজনী, সচকিত সজনী
     শূন্য নিকুঞ্জ অরণ্য।
কলয়িত মলয়ে, সুবিজন নিলয়ে
     বালা বিরহবিষণ্ণ!
নীল আকাশে, তারক ভাসে,
যমুনা গাওত গান,
পাদপ মরমর, নির্ঝর ঝরঝর
কুসুমিত বল্লিবিতান।
তৃষিত নয়ানে, বন-পথ পানে
নিরখে ব্যাকুল বালা,
দেখ না পাওয়ে, আঁখ ফিরাওয়ে
গাঁথে বনফুলমালা।
সহসা রাধা চাহল সচকিত
দূরে খেপল মালা,
কহল-সজনি শুন, বাঁশরি বাজে
কুঞ্জে আওল কালা।
চকিত গহন নিশি, দূর দূর দিশি
বাজত বাঁশি সুতানে।
কন্ঠ মিলাওল ঢলঢল যমুনা
কল কল কল্লোলগানে।
ভণে ভানু, অব শুন গো কানু
পিয়াসিত গোপিনী প্রাণ।
তোঁহার পীরিত বিমল অমৃতরস
হরষে করবে পান।

FROM His eternal seat Christ comes down to this earth, where, ages ago, in the bitter cup of death He poured his deathless life for those who came to the call and those who remained away.
He looks about Him, and sees the weapons of evil that wounded His own age.
The arrogant spikes and spears, the slim, sly knives, the scimitar in diplomatic sheath, crooked and cruel, are hissing and raining sparks as they are sharpened on monster wheels.
But the most fearful of them all, at the hands of the slaughterers, are those on which has been engraved His own name, that are fashioned from the texts of His own words fused in the fire of hatred and hammered by hypocritical greed.
He presses His hand upon His heart; He feels that the age-long moment of His death has not yet ended, that new nails, turned out in countless numbers by those who are learned in cunning craftsmanship, pierce Him in every joint
They had hurt Him once, standing at the shadow of their temple; they are born anew in crowds.
From before their sacred altar they shout to the soldiers, 'Strike!'
And the Son of Man in agony cries, 'My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?'