That colossal, roaring faith—
That pure, bright, burning love—
That fierce, fearless, courage—
That is all you, Prabhupada.
Stepping off the Jaladuta,
You took a giant’s bold steps
On these lusty Western lands,
Towering over the trivia
Of our rowdy, metallic success,
Exposing the emptiness
Of our festering, famished hearts.
Then your giant, verbal hands
Tore open the floodgates of love’s healing ocean.
The original, natural, medicinal, eternal yoga,
Love of God, gushed jubilantly forth from heaven,
Down to our wild, feverish hearts,
And cured them.
And your mighty, devotional arms,
Limbs of a better Atlas,
Held mortal earth and spiritual sun
Too together, bringing
God’s face to man and mortal to Him,
Joined in the sandalwood-fragrant, sanctified
Reconciliatory mansion of your presence,
To you, Prabhupada—
Infinite bows and obeisances, on behalf
Of our dwarfed universe, illumined by you,
The official eyeball of God.
And even I, O holy master,
Grabbed timely by you, while
Gallantly gulping, like the prince of mules,
Poisoned barbs called mortal love,
Clasping hard their slicing edge
To my stupid bosom,
Replete with barking sobs, reeking tears,
For all the wicked things lost
Already, in a brief, tenebrous life.
In the midst of all that, Prabhupada—
You saved me too, you save me, and always
Will save me, dear, most dear Prabhupada.
Hridayananda Dasa Goswami