DEITY OF THE ruined temple! The broken strings of Vina sing no more your praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of worship. The air is still and silent about you.
In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings the tidings of flowers-the flowers that for your worship are offered no more.
Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused. In the eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust, he wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart.
Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple. Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit.
Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the holy stream of oblivion when their time is come.
Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deathless neglect.

SWEETNESS OF thy name fills my heart when I forget minelike thy morning sun when the mist is melted.

YOU HIDE yourself in your own glory, my King.
The sand-grain and the dew-drop are more proudly apparent than yourself.
The world unabashed calls all things its own that are yours-yet it is never brought to shame.
You make room for us while standing aside in silence; therefore love lights her own lamp to seek you and comes to your worship unbidden.