FRIENDS ON THE PATH

[Guest guest]

FRIENDS ON THE PATH

 

The Divine Mother lifts her sacred cup,

She pours pellucid, precious, potent balm,

Curing, healing, raising his spirits up.

With power of Love, perfect, peaceful, calm,

She holds poor palsied pilgrim in her palm,

And plies him with pure nectar, honey sweet,

So pouring from her silver grail a potion warm,

To soothe all cares and salve his blistered feet,

With Love’s ointment: oh, perfect Paraclete!

 

Feeling his fiery steed between his knees,

He watches restless spirit’s breathing flow;

The stallion settles and he reins with ease.

Now tamed, he canters where he wants to go,

To Himalayan summits crowned with snow,

A pure white splendour glowing clear in light,

Above dark turmoil of dormant worlds below.

He arrives at awesome Selfhood, blazing bright,

Sun bursts of colour, a golden shining sight.

 

Wielding his spear of sharpest concentration,

The God-love soldier plunges its silver blade,

With mighty arm of lucid sheer attention,

Deep into the dragon’s heart. Unafraid,

Delivering the coup de grace, is ego laid!

Well honed with dispassionate discrimination,

Whetted with ardent zeal, no wavering shade

Of cowardice, his steel, with keen anticipation,

Slays his wayward mind of Self alienation.

 

He twangs the bow of Self-Enquiry, to enter

A sharp arrow of clearly aimed insight,

Zinging to the bull’s eye of Truth at centre.

Dispelling all doubts in error free flight,

He finds Love, a beckoning beacon light,

Glowing within the inner cave of the heart.

Such marksmanship is the God-Warriors right,

To win this vision, the true martial art,

Holy war, waged until soul and body part.

 

The White Knight hoists on high his pointed lance,

To joust with Death, a fierce Titanic tilt.

As he mounts his steed in warlike prance

He strikes hard at dragon, up to the hilt,

To end all dark sorrow, fear and guilt.

Free from sense of doership, an act replete

With holy knowledge, a temple truly built

To worship God, he kneels to kiss the feet

Of Death’s killer; such a sacred blessed feat.

 

Water bearer draws from Rachel’s well,

A jar of truth for pilgrim’s thirst to slake.

Raising the pitcher she hears the temple bell

Which calls her home to pray and worship make

To God, whom she adores for His own sake

Alone. Free from desire for a selfish boon,

Her love showers joys of grace, and fills the lake

Where sails the white swan of devotion, soon

To gleam beneath the golden harvest Moon.

 

Primordial Sage, in silence, takes his seat,

Emitting waves of God-like love to those

Who rest surrendered at his lotus feet.

His mystic vision is sure and truly knows

The sure destruction of all disciple’s woes,

That halt the mount to that holy peaceful place.

His merciful aid most abundantly flows,

Ever granting pilgrim the power to trace

His own Self ablaze, in an ocean of grace.

 

So bold pilgrim climbs up the mountain path,

His friends are unconditional faith and trust.

Gentle compassion rains, a healing bath

Of grace, cleansing his feet from worldly dust,

Freeing him from greed, ego, anger and lust.

Fearless he walks, awakened, to his goal,

Unattached, discriminating, and just,

Until attaining consummation with the Whole,

He finds, hidden deep at heart, Eternal Soul!

 

Alan Jacobs