Oh Lord, to my dwelling
Won't You come, way mistaking?
Go in vain will a strung wreath;
Will fruitless prove the rice painting?
A song have I composed, melody I've practiced;
Love's offering I have embellished.
In a psychic niche privately,
I've kept a jeweled lamp blazing.
My lute-strings of mind
Keep on singing mantra Thine.
I am an instrument, and You, the Instrumentalist;
Tenderly, will You take, elevating?
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Only in Your hands does my life hold meaning.
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