O PROPHET, o’er the world

Thy soul-compelling banner is unfurled:

See how thy faith hath spread

Till Iran and Arabia are led.

Thy lips unclose

Like petals of a newly-budded rose,

And from them flow

Thy words of wisdom, till not only know

The sons of men,

But birds within the garden sing again

Thy words of gold.

O thou whose beauty I with joy behold,

Nature in truth

Made never loveliness like to thy youth.

Snared me it hath

Till fain would I renunciation’s path

With patience tread,

And follow where thy holy feet have led.

But how can I

My cherished joys to my poor heart deny,

Or, even more,

My cherished sorrows can I yield, for sore

My heart doth bleed

Where cruel love hath wounded it indeed.

Look thou and see

Where from my wounds there drops continually

A crimson flood;

But fragrant flowers are springing from my blood,

And every thorn

Wherewith my weary wandering feet are torn

Turns to a rose.

O Makhfi, if the Kaaba keeper close

To thee his door,

Complain not: thou possessest even more

A holy place;

For look into the Well-Belovèd Face,

Over His Eyes

Arches more fair than Kaaba gates arise;

Thy heart shall bend,

Itself an archway welcoming the Friend.