The Mother's heart, the hero's will,
The softest flowers' sweetest feel;
Behold, it comes in might,
The power that is not power,
The light that is in darkness,
The shade in dazzling light.
The wounded snake its hood unfurls,
The flame stirred up doth blaze,
The desert air resounds the calls
Of heart-struck lion's rage.
Ever rising, ever falling with the waves of time, still rolling on I go
From fleeting scene to scene ephemeral, with life's currents' ebb and flow.
O'ver hill and dale and mountain range,
In temple, church, and mosque,
In Vedas, Bible, Al Koran
I had searched for Thee in vain.
Behold, the dark clouds melt away,
That gathered thick at night, and hung
So like a gloomy pall above the earth!
I look behind and after
And find that all is right,
In my deepest sorrows
There is a soul of light.
The mother's heart, the hero's will,
The sweetness of the southern breeze,
The sacred charm and strength that dwell
On Aryan altars, flaming, free;