Śrī Subrahmaṇya Bhujaṅgam (The Serpent-Like Hymn to Lord Murugan)

May that unique and blessed form of Ganesha, who is ever a child yet destroys mountains of obstacles, who has the face of a great elephant yet is revered by the five-faced Shiva, who is sought after by Brahma and Indra, grant me prosperity.

I know neither the words nor their meaning, neither verse nor prose; yet the one consciousness, the six-faced Lord, shines in my heart, and from my mouth flow words—how wondrous!

I worship the Lord of the world, the son of the great Shiva, who rides a peacock, who is profound in the great Vedantic truths, whose form captivates the mind, whose abode is the great heart, who is the god of gods on earth, and who embodies the essence of the Vedas.

I praise that pure one, the son of the Supreme Shakti, who sits on the seashore, revealing that when people come into His presence, they immediately cross the ocean of worldly existence.

I ever meditate in the lotus of my heart on that Guha, who shows to those who serve Him that just as the high waves of the ocean subside, so too do all calamities vanish in His presence.

May that six-faced Lord, who sits atop the fragrant mountain, ever be my joy, as if declaring that those who ascend to His mountain abode become themselves resplendent.

We take refuge in that Guha, who dwells in a cave on the fragrant mountain by the great ocean, stealing away great sins, favored by the foremost sages, shining with His own light, and removing the afflictions of humanity.

I ever meditate on Kartikeya, the lord of the gods, who sits on a gem-studded throne covered with heaps of flowers in a radiant golden hall that grants all desires to people, shining with the brilliance of a thousand rising suns.

O Skanda, may my mind, a bee tormented by the heat of worldly existence, ever delight in the lotus of Your feet—soft, red, resonant with the sweet sound of swans, and filled with the nectar of captivating beauty.

O Skanda, I meditate on Your radiant waist, shining with a golden cloth, adorned with a jingling girdle of bells, and gleaming with a bright golden sash.

O destroyer of the demon Taraka, I bow to Your chest, which is ever affectionate for the protection of Your devotees, marked with the saffron stain from the tight embrace of the daughter of the hunter chief, whose full and lofty breasts are like dense clouds.

I ever take refuge in Your mighty arms, O Lord, which are like the staff of punishment for Brahma, which hold the cosmic egg in sport, which have cast aside the elephant trunk, which are the rod of death for enemies, which have destroyed the hosts of foes of Indra, and which are mighty protectors of the world.

O Skanda, if there were six autumnal moons, all rising together, all present all around, ever full and without blemish, then I would speak of their equality with Your faces.

O son of Shiva, I behold Your six lotus-like faces, adorned with gentle smiles, bright with the swarms of bees that are Your darting sidelong glances, and with lips that drip nectar.

O Lord of compassion, if Your merciful sidelong glance, flowing with compassion, falls even once upon me from Your twelve large, long, and ever-compassionate eyes that reach Your ears, what loss would there be to You?

O Lord of the world, I bow to Your radiant heads, which bear the burden of the world, which the Lord Shiva, joyfully chanting the mantra "You are born of my body, my life," six times, smelled with affection.

May the son of the destroyer of the three cities (Shiva) stand before me, adorned with sparkling jeweled armlets and necklaces, with earrings swinging and cheeks shining, wearing yellow garments on His waist, and holding a beautiful spear in His hand.

I worship the child form of Kumara, who, when Lord Shiva lovingly calls out "Come here, child," and stretches out His hands, leaps from His mother's lap and takes refuge in His father, and whose body is embraced by Shiva.

O Kumara, son of the Lord of hosts, O Guha, O Skanda, O commander of the army, O wielder of the spear, O rider of the peacock, O beloved of the daughter of the hunter chief, O remover of the afflictions of devotees, O Lord, O destroyer of Taraka, ever protect me.

O compassionate Guha, when my senses are stilled, my consciousness lost, my body motionless, my mouth frothing with phlegm, my limbs trembling with fear, and I am helpless and facing death, then quickly appear before me.

When the fierce messengers of Yama, enraged, threaten me, saying "Burn, cut, shatter him," may You, mounting Your peacock, with spear in hand, quickly come before me and say "Fear not."

O Lord, O ocean of mercy, having repeatedly bowed and fallen at Your feet, having propitiated You, I pray many times—I am unable to speak at that time, so at the final moment, do not be negligent even a little.

O Lord, You have slain the demon Taraka, who devoured thousands, and the lion-faced demon, who was called a hero; yet You do not destroy the single mental affliction that dwells in my heart. What shall I do? Where shall I go?

I am ever weighed down by a burden of sorrow; You are the friend of the poor; I ask for none other than You. O son of Uma, quickly destroy my affliction, which always obstructs devotion to You and causes constant pain.

O destroyer of Taraka, epilepsy, leprosy, consumption, hemorrhoids, diabetes, fever, insanity, tumors, and all other great diseases, as well as all evil spirits, flee the moment they see the sacred ash from Your feet.

O Guha, may all my states be absorbed in You: may Your form be in my sight, Your glory in my hearing, Your holy story ever in my mouth, Your work in my hands, and Your service in my body.

There are gods everywhere who grant the desires of sages and devoted people, but for granting the wishes of even the lowest of people, I know no other god than Guha—I know none other.

O Kumara, may all who are mine—my spouse, children, relatives, cattle, or any man or woman in my house—always worship, bow to, praise, and remember You.

O destroyer of the Krauncha mountain, may all beasts, birds, insects, and other harmful creatures, as well as diseases and afflictions that trouble my body, be pierced by the sharp tip of Your spear and perish far away.

O lord of the army of the gods, do not parents forgive the offenses of their own child? I am but a child, and You are the father of the world; forgive all my offenses, O great Lord.

Salutations to Your peacock, and to Your spear; salutations to Your goat; salutations to Your rooster; salutations to the ocean and to the land of the ocean; again and again, O Skanda, salutations to You, salutations.

Victory to You, O abode of bliss; victory to You, O limitless abode; victory to You, O unfailing glory; victory to You, O form of bliss; victory to You, O ocean of bliss; victory to You, O friend of all; victory to You, O son of the giver of liberation, ever victory.

Whoever recites this hymn composed in the Bhujanga meter with devotion, bowing to Guha, will obtain excellent sons, a spouse, wealth, long life, and at the end, union with Skanda.

Thus ends the Shri Subrahmanya Bhujanga composed by the blessed Shankara Bhagavatpada.