Śrī Brahmā

O almighty Lord, those who reject the auspicious path of devotion to You and toil only for the attainment of bare [impersonal] knowledge — for them nothing remains but trouble, just as nothing but labor remains for those who thresh empty husks.

Who could ever count the qualities of You who, though the soul of all qualities, have descended for the welfare [of all]? No one — even in the course of time — just as no one, however skilled in reckoning, has ever counted the particles of dust of the earth, the snowflakes in the sky, or the radiant stars of heaven.

O Lord, of even this body of Yours — which is a grace shown to me, made of Your own will and not of material elements — no one is able to fathom the glory, even inwardly by the mind; how much less, then, Your direct experience of Your own bliss.

Behold, O Lord, my ignoble act — that before You, the infinite, the primeval one, the Supreme Self, the very master of all illusion, I spread out illusion to test Your own power! How insignificant am I — like a spark before a blazing fire.

One who, while enjoying the ripened fruit of his own past deeds, earnestly looks for Your compassion and offers obeisance to You with heart, words and body, and so lives — he is the rightful heir to the state of liberation.

O unconquerable one, those who, casting aside the endeavor for [impersonal] knowledge, simply offer obeisance and live by hearing the tidings of You voiced by saints — abiding in their own station and receiving it with body, words and mind — though You are unconquerable, by them You are, for the most part, conquered in the three worlds.

Therefore forgive me, O Acyuta — born of the mode of passion, ignorant, imagining myself a controller apart from You, my eyes blinded by the dense darkness of pride in being an unborn creator. [Consider,] 'This one is worthy of My compassion, for he takes Me as his Lord.'

Brahmā said: I offer obeisance to You, O praiseworthy one, whose body is dark as a cloud and whose garment is like lightning, whose face glows with earrings of guñjā berries and a crown of peacock plumes, who wears a garland of forest flowers, whose beauty is marked by a morsel of food, a herding-stick, a buffalo-horn bugle and a flute, whose feet are tender — the son of a cowherd.

Here in former times, O all-pervading one, many yogīs too, dedicating their activities to You by the means won through their own work, awakened through devotion alone — brought about by hearing Your narrations — and easily attained Your supreme goal, O Acyuta.

Even so, O great one, the glory of You who are beyond the material qualities can be grasped only by those of pure inner being — arising from the changeless, from direct self-experience, from the formless, and because Your nature can be known by no other means than itself — and in no other way.