This is not my own country or garb; by chance I have wandered here. What can I claim as mine? Where have I found a resting place? Though I call my feet and my hands my own, how bereft I am of them! I am a friendless stranger blind and lame. O Lord, regard and relieve me; I have neither brother nor child, I commit myself to the saints. I tremble as I follow the path before me, whereon many have traveled and none returned. I cannot see what happens though my ears perceive a sound. I sit at the crossroads, holding thee fast in my thoughts. I cry out for mercy like one that has lost his way. My belly is never filled; my feet are never at rest. I am weary with wandering through the eight million villages. I cling to this inhabited spot; what can I trust to? Who will bring me an unexpected alms? Often have I heard its praises sung in such a strain that now I cry, O meritorious Lord, be my friend! I am very hungry, but you give freely. Any merits I had, I resign. Wealth, family, son, mother, all these ties I have cast off. O God, I have renounced desire, for so it was decreed I should do. Tuka says, You are now my all-powerful protector.
43 - The burden of sainthood
Does the cock keep the author of day true to his time? Why, O God, do you place on my head such a burden as to bid me a saint? Will masters starve if servants refuse to cook food? Tuka says, The infinite one knows how to bring all things to pass.
125 - I cannot bear to see the people suffering
I am not afraid of my own death now; I cannot bear to see the people suffering. Our holy order is perishing; O generous one, how is it you perceive it not? Our worship is broken off; this indeed is death; we cannot bear an instant without it. Tuka says, O generous one, I ask thee for a place where no wind of violence can touch me.
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