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.