HE IT IS, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches. He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain. He it is who weaves the web of this maya in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green, and lets peep out through the folds his feet, at whose touch I forget myself. Days come and ages pass, and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow.
FORGIVE MY languor, O Lord, if ever I lag behind upon life's way. Forgive my anguished heart which trembles and hesitates in its service. Forgive my fondness that lavishes its wealth upon an unprofitable past. Forgive these faded flowers in my offering that wilt in the fierce heat of panting hours.