The Path – April 1891

THE MASTER OF COMPASSION — Elliott B. Page

"To don Nirmanakaya's humble robe is to forego eternal, bliss for self, to help all man's salvation." Voice of the Silence.

He on whose shoulders falls this robe,
     No more of Self shall know;
All unperceived of man and earth,
     He shall through Kalpas go;
Unknown, unheeded, disbelieved,
     While ages ebb and flow.

The biting wind, the cruel frost,
     The blasts of fiendish hate;
The heartbreak of a wretched world,
     The cruelties of Fate;
The salt, salt tears of Sorrow's sea
     For the Unselfish wait.

No pause for rest, no thought of bliss,
     Nor taste of heavenly joy;
Unceasing toil, unceasing pain,
     Woe, woe without alloy
Must recompense that stainless one
     For all his sad employ.

The Guardian Wall by such is built,
     With hearts instead of stones,
By blood and tortures made secure;
     Impelled by human groans,
These saintly ones for us forego
     All bliss while Mis'ry moans.


The Path

THEOSOPHICAL UNIVERSITY PRESS ONLINE