O Lord, of my demerits take no heed.
Thy praise is to look equally on all: Lord, if thou wilt, Thou canst save me.
One ranks as a river, another but as a brook: foul is the stream that flows in all.
In one race all unite: Ganga is then the name, she takes.
This iron is sanctified for worship, that serves in the butcher's house.
Of merit and demerit the touch stone knows nothing: it makes of both alike pure gold.
From all Maya's baffling web grant Sur Das release, O Syama.
In this hour save me, Lord: else Thy promised word proves false.

Great is the shield of Rama's name.
The man who seeks His protection, He rejects not: He shows abundant mercy.
In the presence chamber of Hari all are seated: there is neither high nor low.
O Sur Das, by the touch-stone's power the baseness of the iron is done away.

Whether we be good or bad, yet are we Thine.
Our name and fame are in Thy hand: hear my prayer, O Lord.
Renouncing all, we sought thy protection, and our hands have clasped thy feet.
For Thy glory and thy might, we take no thought of others: all Thy slaves have cast out fear.
All other gods are poor and beggars: many but of no account are those who follow them.
Sur Das, O Lord, by Thy loving kindness found un-numbered comforts.

For men there is no master like unto Hari.
In whatsoever state his servants find comfort, in that same state He keeps them.
The hungry He feeds full, to the thirsty he gives to drink, and to the body clothes.
Ever is He with His servant, as the cow keeps by her calf, whether in the byre or grazing in the jungle.
He is all-generous, wise, the guru that grants all desires, the equal of ten thousand Kuveras in His giving.
The vows His servants offer, He honours: His hand is outstretched to receive even a straw.

Tis thus, tis thus — the life is wasted.
Sometimes wandering from dwelling to dwelling without the name of Hari, sometimes sleeping: so I passed my days away.
Sometimes dreaming of food and drink and such like pleasures, sometimes engaged in fruitless arguings.
Sometimes dreaming of poverty and riches: like a juggler or a mime.
I have not yet awakened and the hour is passing — as a fish without water am I.
To such a pass as this Sur Das has come: how shall he find the Lord?

High o'er the hill the moon barque steers.
The lantern lights depart.
Dead springs are stirring in my heart;
And there are tears. . . .
But that which makes my grief more deep
Is that you know not when I weep.

When wilt thou sing the praises? The life is passing away.
A million plans thou hast made for Maya: never, O fool, hast thou found satisfaction.
Thy childhood lost in playing: in youth thou didst grow proud.
In the clutches of desire, of anger, and coveting: thou didst not learn to know thyself.
In infirm old age, the phlegm has choked thy throat: beating thy breast thou dost bewail.
O Sur, if Syama but cast one glance upon thee, thou wilt cross the stream of the world.

Hari's nature no one knows.
The ascetics, those with matted hair and those who practise penance: and many wise men toiled for nought.

He himself has spread abroad His own Maya and He Himself beholds it.
Countless forms he wears and many guises: yet is He ever separate from all.

Immeasurable, infinite, without sign, without birth: in Him all the world is deluded,
All illusion have I renounced, O Nanak, all thought of " mine " and " thine " : and made His feet the object of my meditation.

O Sadhus, this mind there is no controlling.
The wavering desires dwell with it: wherefore there is no steadfastness.

Harsh anger is lodged within the heart: so all understanding is forgotten.
Every gem of wisdom it has plundered: therefore none can overcome it.

The ascetics failed for all their efforts: the wise continued to sing praises.
But, O Nanak, when Hari proved merciful, then all was every way made perfect.

Save Hari only, none is thy helper
No one has mother, father, son or wife: no one is another's brother.
Wealth and land and all possessions, which thou callest thine,
Of these when the soul quits the body none go with thee: why cling to them?
The Merciful is every ready to banish pain: yet for him no love thou cherishest.
Nanak says, This world is all illusion, a vision of the night.