Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.

There is none to count thy minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers.

Thou knowest how to wait.

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose,

and having no time we must scramble for a chance.

We are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by

while I give it to every querulous man who claims it,

and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut;

but I find that yet there is time.

On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time.

But it is never lost, my lord.

Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.

Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts,

buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.

I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed

and imagined all work had ceased.

In the morning I woke up

and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.

I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn

uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious!

Thy touch has not yet melted my vapor,

making me one with thy light,

and thus I count months and years separated from thee.

If this be thy wish and if this be thy play,

then take this fleeting emptiness of mine,

paint it with colors, gild it with gold,

float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders.

And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night,

I shall melt and vanish away in the dark,

or it may be in a smile of the white morning,

in a coolness of purity transparent.

If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life

then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight

---let me not forget for a moment,

let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams

and in my wakeful hours.

As my days pass in the crowded market of this world

and my hands grow full with the daily profits,

let me ever feel that I have gained nothing

---let me not forget for a moment,

let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams

and in my wakeful hours.

When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting,

when I spread my bed low in the dust,

let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me

---let me not forget a moment,

let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams

and in my wakeful hours.

When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound

and the laughter there is loud,

let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house

---let me not forget for a moment,

let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams

and in my wakeful hours.