Broken am I, O my Creator, grant the vision I crave, my soul is vexed.

God is beginning, God is end — Adam and angel both His servants.
I, for whose aid Saints, Prophets were given, what am I, poor unclean wretch.

Tis Thou alone, whose presence all must seek: there is non else beside Thee.
If any trusts not on His love, what use are prayers in mosque or temple?

Still is this maker of shoes in misery, a lowly attendant upon Thee.
Weary and worn at Thy door, unanswered — says this poor Rai Das.