The Shabd of Saints

With love as the mortar, A magnificent palace
My Master has raised; for the darshan of the Lord
The peephole of Shabd He has kept.

The one Shabd of my percent Master
Many try to know through musing and thinking;
But even pundits and the erudite, The hermits and ascetics,
The Vedas and the scriptures,
fail to grasp the Shabd, That the true Master gives.


Shabd is mine, I am of Shabd,
Realize that Shabd if you crave salvation.
Donít let this chance slip by.
Shabd is mine I am of Shabd;
Shabd is the support of the entire universe,
If you long to see the Lord, Realize the form of Shabd.
The dark shadows of the night vanish with the rising of the sun,
The contact of the Shabd, dissolves the gloom of delusion.

He who attains the Shabd, who keeps his soul
In Shabd absorbed, Reaches the royal Audience Hall;
Kabir, there he will see-The Supreme One, My beloved Lord.
It is not that pearl which is strung on a thread,
It is the pearl of Shabd that threads one and all.

The unhurt cry for the Lord, but different is the cry
Of the one who is wounded by the Shabd,
Kabir, stabbed by the Shabd, Is dumb and lifeless.
So deep is the love of the magnet to iron. That it draws it to its ownself;
Such is the Shabd of kabir-It pulls the soul away from Kal.

In all three worlds I see Him;
Why do you say He is invisible, unseen?
You have failed to know the true Shabd,
For you have donned the dress of delusion.

Remember, O learned ones, From the Satguru alone
The true Shabd you can obtain; That Shabd is your essence, All else is vain.
Catch the Shabd, Your origin and essence;
The ocean will then merge in the drop, The part will contain the whole,
Like the seed that holds within it a mighty tree.

The Debt


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