10-27-2004, 11:40 PM
I find Sant Tukaram's abhangs very moving.
Here are three of his abhangs. The translation is by Nicol Macnicol in
"Psalms of Maratha Saints".
Abhang 1:
A beggar at thy door,
Pleading I stand;
Give me an alms, O God,
Love from thy loving hand.
Spare me the barren task,
To come, and come for nought.
A gift poor Tuka craves,
Unmerited, unbought.
Abhang 2:
As on the bank the poor fish lies
And gasps and writhes in pain,
Or as a man with anxious eyes
Seeks hidden gold in vain -
So is my heart distressed and cries
To come to thee again.
Thou knowest Lord, the agony
Of the lost infant's wail,
Yearning his mother's face to see.
(How oft I tell this tale!)
Oh at thy feet the mystery
Of the dark world unveil!
The fire of this harassing thought
Upon my bosom preys.
Why is it I am thus forgot?A
(Oh, who can know thy ways?)
Nay, Lord, thou seest my hapless lot;
Have mercy, Tuka says.
Abhang 3:
Thy nature is beyond the grasp
Of human speech or thought.
So love I've made the measure-rod,
By which I can be taught.
Thus with the measure-rod of love
I mete the infinite.
In sooth, to measure Him there is
None other means so fit.
Here are three of his abhangs. The translation is by Nicol Macnicol in
"Psalms of Maratha Saints".
Abhang 1:
A beggar at thy door,
Pleading I stand;
Give me an alms, O God,
Love from thy loving hand.
Spare me the barren task,
To come, and come for nought.
A gift poor Tuka craves,
Unmerited, unbought.
Abhang 2:
As on the bank the poor fish lies
And gasps and writhes in pain,
Or as a man with anxious eyes
Seeks hidden gold in vain -
So is my heart distressed and cries
To come to thee again.
Thou knowest Lord, the agony
Of the lost infant's wail,
Yearning his mother's face to see.
(How oft I tell this tale!)
Oh at thy feet the mystery
Of the dark world unveil!
The fire of this harassing thought
Upon my bosom preys.
Why is it I am thus forgot?A
(Oh, who can know thy ways?)
Nay, Lord, thou seest my hapless lot;
Have mercy, Tuka says.
Abhang 3:
Thy nature is beyond the grasp
Of human speech or thought.
So love I've made the measure-rod,
By which I can be taught.
Thus with the measure-rod of love
I mete the infinite.
In sooth, to measure Him there is
None other means so fit.