Classic Poem

Mother, those that hungering seek thy grace
And offer to thee their life and love,
Howbeit consigned to dungeons here,
They'd qualify for a place in Heaven.

Those unvisited by your grace, Mother,
Must exult in being slaves;
Albeit inhabiting palaces,
They breathe the air of prison cells.

Winning your grace through heroic deeds
Many Western peoples now live a new life;
They've achieved all, being always ready
To make the supreme sacrifice.

Alas, born in a hapless land
Which remembers not the glories lost,
Knowing the power of your grace, Mother,
How best may I propitiate thee?

I call these Light! Nectar of the brave!
Preserver of the righteous!
Destroyer of suffering and deceit!
I call for the descent of your grace.

[Translated into English By S. Prema]