tiruvAcagam or The Sacred Utterances of the Tamil Poet, Saint and ...

XXII.
The LIGHT Thou art: the White One, gleaming bright. with sacred ash
Besmeared. Lo ! THOU'ST FORSAKEN ME; Thou to Thy servants true
Art near; from others ever distant; hard to know; -
The Feminine, the ancient Male, the neutral One art Thou ! (88)
XXIII.
The form Thou gav'st I wore, in faults abounding, scant of love,.
Me, worthless slave, THOU HAST FORSAKEN, see ! But, if Thou leave,
I perish; none but Thee upholds Thy slave; Source of my being's bliss;
This clear perception hath Thy servant gained, Indwelling Lord ! (92)
XXIV.
Things true abiding, folly-stirred, for vanities I burn'd;
And THOU'ST FORSAKEN ME; Thou Who as robe dost wear the hide
Of fiery mighty-handed elephant !-I joys of sense
Seeking gain not, like ANTS that noiseless round the oil-jar swarm. (96)
XXV.
Like worm in midst of ANTS, by senses gnawed and troubled sore,
Me, utterly alone, Lo ! THOU'ST FORSAKEN; Thou Whom fiery death obeyed;
Whose fragrant flowery Foot the heavenly ones attain, and they
Who know; O MIGHTY One, Who from Thy servants partest not ! (100)
XXVI.
'When the GREAT waters fail, the little fishes faint; ' so reft of Thee
I quake. Lo ! THOU'ST FORSAKEN ME ! The moon's white crescent borne
On Ganga's wave, like little skiff on mountain stream,
Is hidden in Thy braided locks, -O CHOICEST GEM of heaven ! (104)
XXVII.
CHOICE GEMS they wore, those softly smiling maids; I failed, I fell.
Lo ! THOU'ST FORSAKEN ME ! -Thou gav'st me place 'mid Saints who wept,
Their beings fill'd with rapturous joys; in grace didst make me Thine !-
Show me Thy Feet, even yet to SENSE revealed, O spotless Gem ! (108)
XXVIII.
While SENSES made me quake, I trembling swerved to falsehood's way.
Lo ! THOU'ST FORSAKEN ME ! While heaven and earth the poison feared
From out the mighty sea, Thou madest it ambrosia; Home of grace !
Thy servant I, O Master, stand distraught; sole Worship of my heart ! (112)
XXIX.
Thyself from every fetter free, Thou freed'st me from all fault, O Sire,
Whose bow victorious is the mighty mount ! Lo, THOU'ST FORSAKEN ME !
Thy lotus-form the cassia's gold wreath wears; O matchless One !
By fivefold-evil am I stirred like milk by CHURNING STAFF. (116)