I’m poor and empty-handed, but grace free is of the Lord;
Nonentity’s my attribute: to Be is of the Lord:
For Being or Non-being’s rise, decree is of the Lord;
The surging of the Seen and Unseen’s sea is of the Lord.
Oh, that I knew what here I am, that which indeed is mine!
Of gifts from table of his Bounty is my daily bread;
My breath is from the Breath of God’s benignant Mercy fed;
My portion from the favors of Almighty Power is shed;
And my provision is from Providence’s kitchen spread.
Oh, that I knew what here I am, that which indeed is mine!
I cannot, unallotted, take my share from wet or dry;
From land or from the ocean, from earth or from the sky;
The silver or the gold will come, by Providence laid by;
I cannot grasp aught other than my fortune doth supply.
Oh, that I knew what here I am, that which indeed is mine!
Creation’s Pen the lines of billows of events hath traced;
Th’ illumined scroll of the Two Worlds, Creation’s Pencil graced;
Their garments upon earth and sky, Creation’s woof hath placed;
Men’s forms are pictures in Creation’s great Shāh-Nāma traced.
Oh, that I knew what here I am, that which indeed is mine!
I cannot make the morning eve, or the dark night the day;
I cannot turn the air to fire, or dust to water’s spray;
I cannot bid the Sphere stand still, or mountain region stray;
I cannot Autumn turn by will of mine to lovely May.
Oh, that I knew what here I am, that which indeed is mine!
From out of Nothingness his mighty Power made me appear;
Whilst in the womb I lay, saw he to all I need for here;
With kindness concealed and manifest did he me rear;
With me he drew a curtain o’er Distinction’s beauty dear.
Oh, that I knew what here I am, that which indeed is mine!
God’s Revelation is Discernment’s Eye, if’t oped remain;
The picturings of worlds are all things changing aye amain;
The showing of the Hidden Treasure is this raging main,
This work, this business of the Lord, this Majesty made plain.
Oh, that I knew what here I am, that which indeed is mine!
Now void, now full, are Possibility’s store-houses vast;
This glass-lined world’s the mirror where Lights Twain their phases cast;
The blinded thing—in scattering strange fruits its hours are past;
Ruined hath this old Vineyard been by autumn’s sullen blast.
Oh, that I knew what here I am, that which indeed is mine!
Nābī.