Thou wearest spectacles, of blue, or red, or green; And thence thou judgest all is tinged with that sheen. If thou wilt use a window glazed with coloured glass, Thou may’st expect the sun will seem of that same class. If thou’rt not mad, thou’lt know the colour is thy own. Thyself call evil. Henceforth others leave alone. Believers see with eye of faith,--the light of God. How else to them were visible all things’ synod? 450 If thou examine things with hell-fire in thy heart, How canst thou see distinct the good and bad apart. Seek by degrees to drown that fire in holy light. So shalt thou, sinner, soon, thy weakness change for might. And do Thou, Lord, asperge from mercy’s cleansing stream, To change the fire of sin to light of faith supreme. The ocean’s waters are a mere drop in Thy hand; The streams of mercy, fire of wrath, at Thy command. If Thou so will, the fire a pleasant stream may be. And at Thy word, a lake a fiery pit we’d see. 455 From Thee spring our devotions, supplications, prayers. ’Tis Thou deliverest the victims from their slayers. Without our supplication, Thou entreaty gavest. The stores of Thy great mercy for all men Thou savest. The hare, for his deliverance, jubilant set out, To join his fellows, scattered in their homes about. He saw the lion prone at bottom of the well; Then rapidly went back his stratagem to tell. He clapped his hands for joy at his escape from death, Exuberant as plant sprouts from the earth beneath. 460 Its stalk and leaf break forth from prison underground. It rears itself apace, makes friends with th’ air around. The leaves burst from the stem, and spread themselves abroad; Until by growth a tree, whose grace all men applaud. It now expands in thanks for favours of the Lord; Each leaf, flower, fruit intones a hymn of praise, like bard. “Thou, Giver of all good things, nourishedst my root. And madest me become a strongly growing shoot.” Our souls, shut up in prison in our frames of clay, So break forth into raptures when they’re called away. 465 They dance for very joy, from love of God Allwise, When, like full moon perfected, they in glory rise. Material beings, thus, their dance perform, and souls. Ask not of them the subject of their hyperboles. The hare had lodged the lion in a dungeon safe. More shame for lion was it, hare should make him chafe. Just so a shame it is, and subject for surprise, The state in which he’s left, who Fakhru-’d-Dīn would rise.[176] O, he’s a lion, sure, at bottom of a well. His pride of flesh the hare that cast him down to hell. 470 His pride, the hare, at large, disporting as it will; Himself down in the pit. O, what a bitter pill!