The voice of pain is weak and thin
And yet it never dies.
Kwan-yin—Kwan-yin
Has tears in her eyes.
Be comforted ... be comforted....
Be comforted, my dear....
Never a heart too dead
For Kwan-yin to hear.
A pony with a ragged skin
Falls beneath a load;
Kwan-yin—Kwan-yin
Runs down the road.
A comforter ... a comforter....
A comforter shall come....
No pain too mean for her;
No grief too dumb.
Man's deserts and man's sin
She shall not discover.
Kwan-yin—Kwan-yin—
Is the world's lover.
Ah, thief of pain ... thou thief of pain....
Thou thief of pain, come in.
Never a cry in vain,
Kwan-yin—Kwan-yin....
First priest—tenor—chants:
Is she then a warrior against sin?
On what field does she plant her banner?
Bears she a sword?
First and second priests—tenor and bass—chant:
The world is very full of battle;
The speared and plumed forests in their ranks besiege the mountains;
The flooded fields like scimitars lie between the breasts of the mountains.
The mists ride on bugling winds down the mountains.
Shall not Kwan-yin bear a sword?
Third priest—tenor—chants:
Kwan-yin is no warrior.
Kwan-yin bears no sword.
Even against sin
Kwan-yin has no battle.
This is her banner—a new day, a forgetting hour.
Her hands are empty of weapons and outstretched to the world.
Her feet are set on lotus flowers,
The lotus flowers are set on a pale lake,
And the lake is filled with the tears of the world.
Kwan-yin is still, she is very still, she listens always,
Kwan-yin lives remembering tears.
At this point the smoke of the joss-sticks veils the face of Kwan-yin. A woman's voice sings: