From the TEMPLE WITHIN: The 4th Book of Light
Chapter 9: The VERSES OF COMFORTING
The following are a translation of the verses spoken by Sat Nam to SOUL out of compassion for the suffering it must go through in the lower worlds during its rites of purification:
To you who toil and work the earth,
To you whose back is broke and bowed,
I give this gift of holy writ
A bounty from the sacred realm
That eternity may then bestow
A jewel upon the brow of those
To whom the years have been unkind,
I bid you read, and ease thy pain.
The journals of a thousand lands
All tell of stories like your own,
Yet nowhere does your name appear,
And nowhere is the answer known
To question that those tales imply,
As if no others wondered why
There is no equity in life,
Why striving leads to greater strife.
A tenth have more than they can use
And all the rest go beg for bread,
Yet none are happy with their lot;
There's always something "God forgot."
No, there is no answer, Soul,
Except that deep in your own heart
You do not love thyself enough
To overcome the warring world;
And thy own image of thyself
Is not so strong as overcomes
The image in the bent, distorted
Mirrors of a demon horde
That taunt you with the glaring "proof"
That you are helpless, crippled, old.
Be not hypnotized by these,
But readily dismiss them all,
And go forth upon the sacred path
That leads to every honorable goal;
For nothing's proven like the lie -
If the sizing tools are also false,
And to the horde you wish to flee,
Nothing deadlier than the truth.
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You knowest not from whence you came
But you are of the highest born,
And shall return there once again
To take thy place with spiritual giants;
Your brothers, who were parted from you
Long ago and now are lost.
Be united now, rejoice,
And raise the standard of your clan,
And mount it on the pinnacle
Of Soul's most lofty principles.
Go now to this august band;
In this hushed moment, close your eyes,
And know your kin are standing near
To recognize your least success,
And when you stumble, to understand.
For at the moment you were born,
As Soul, these souls also awoke,
And each at the same moment, stepped
Upon the treadle-piece of time
To set to motion all the gears
To turn the spinning-wheel of life.
The karmic world's a shearing house,
Souls gather wool and then are fleeced
By the razor of the hand of wisdom,
Then are sent to rest, to sleep.
The wool of Soul's desires drift
Around the flooring of that house,
And comes the sweeper with his broom
To gather up the precious gift
To make a garment for the Lord
As perfect as its wearer is;
A raiment of the finest cloth
In which the dreams of each of us,
Our hopes, our thoughts, our brave desires,
Are interweaved in harmony,
And tinted with a thousand hues
To weave a coat of many colors.
And who is it, beloved one,
Who shears and sweeps and gathers wool
And puts it in an arm basket,
And takes it to the spinning room
And steps upon the treadle-piece
And twists the fabric of the heart
Into a finer band of white,
And spins and stretches, tortures it
Till it is tempered, to a strand
That's stronger than the strongest hand?
It's you, yourself who does all this
And there is no one else to blame,
And there is no one else to thank
But you, for the gift that God receives.
For God created every Soul
Out of Itself, for love's own sake,
And sent us "here" to find our way
Around the grassy knolls, and play
And feast upon the bounty of
Its worlds, and bear the fleece of love!
The Golden Fleece of which men tell
Is only love, the purest kind,
Which is but the shavings of
The Golden Heart, when purified
And whetted down and fired, till
It shines just like a golden sun.
It is this "heart" that's your own heart
When viewed from the most heavenly realm,
And the love that it shines forth is but
The Golden Fleece, the gift of soul
To man, to beast, to life itself,
And in the end, the only gift
Worth giving back to God.
To you whose heart sets like a fire
Upon the darkening hills of hope,
And destiny seems like the night
That seeps into the brightest colors
Of your dreams, and mutes them slow,
To drain them each until they die,
As winter does to autumn's leaves -
And yet you've fire in the sky;
To thee I cast a ray of light
Across the horizon of the world,
Across the plain of suffering,
That you might find your way back to
The home and hearth that waits for you.
This ray of light may take the form
Of bird, or rock or silent spring,
But often as not it's but a Soul
Who wanders the valleys late at night,
In whose right hand there is the lamp
Which lights your path and lights your eyes,
And if you offer, lights your lamp
With the matchstick of initiation.
This Soul is called the Inner guide,
The Secret Master of the time,
He is the Teacher, watch for him,
If you are fortunate enough
To find him in that foggy vale,
For then you are no longer lost,
But have found instead the way to life.
To you whose heart beats like a drum
With love for every suffering thing,
And marches forth with expectation
Of a victory not yet won,
To you my strongest thoughts are aimed
They shower you with consolation,
For you of all must feel the sting
On every hunted doe's behalf,
And every angel mankind slays,
You too must feel the poison tip
Of hate, and bless with your own blood,
The daggers of your disappointment.
To you I give the mighty word
Which is the holy force of life,
Which is the very voice of God,
Which is the audible food of love.
At times this word will be a sound
Unlike any you have heard,
A rushing in of cosmic tides,
Or eerie music of the spheres,
But often as not, it's but a Soul
Whose voice is calmer than the rest,
A silent music fills his words
As if you'd heard them once before.
Listen to this sound Oh Soul,
For it will give you confidence,
And comfort you in times of stress;
His word shall guide you when you're lost,
And be a shield when you're attacked.
This soul is called the Inner Guide,
The Secret Master of the time
He is the Teacher, heed His word,
For He will sound the rallying call
Of a hundred thousand Souls,
But most won't hear or see him there,
So subtle is this messenger.
Listen hard to every sound
And every voice along the way;
As you forge through the wilderness,
Be mindful, notice every sigh,
For any sound may be his footsteps,
Any voice may be his cry.
And to you who loves each living thing
Without conditions, hopes or fears,
To you I give the greatest blessing
The direct experience of God,
The freedom of the higher worlds,
And the company of mighty souls.
For you, this Secret Master is
A host, companion, and your friend,
The one who watches through your eyes,
And works the soil through your hands.
For other lovers may abide
In love more overpowering
Or love that bears a greater seal,
Or love that knows no depths of pain.
But you yourself are love, incarnate,
Yours, the love of higher beings
You've earned the right of entry to
The territory of My heart,
The one safe harbor of the wise,
The one eternal home of Soul.
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