The Kalyanamandira Stotra

I bow to the Lord Jina, whose lotus feet are a temple of auspiciousness, sublime, destroying all defects, granting fearlessness to the frightened, and utterly blameless—a ship for all beings drowning in the ocean of worldly existence.

Even the lord of the gods, whose intellect is vast, is unable to compose a hymn worthy of the ocean of majesty that is the Lord of Tirthas, the destroyer of the pride of the demon Kamatha—yet I, insignificant as I am, dare to attempt his praise.

O Lord, how can beings like me, who are not masters of themselves, even describe your nature in a general way? If a blind owl or a child tries to depict the form of the sun, what can it possibly achieve?

O Lord, even a mortal who experiences your virtues due to the destruction of delusion is certainly unable to count them fully. For who can measure the heap of jewels in the ocean, even when the waters of a cosmic dissolution are clearly visible?

O Lord, though my mind is dull, I am striving to compose a hymn for you, the abode of countless radiant virtues. Does not a child, stretching out his arms, try to measure the vastness of the ocean of his own intellect?

O Lord, how can I have any scope to speak of those virtues of yours that even yogis cannot fully grasp? Thus this undertaking of mine is ill-considered—yet even birds chirp in their own language, do they not?

O Jina, let alone your inconceivable majesty—even your mere name protects the worlds from the cycle of existence. In the heat of summer, even a gentle breeze from a lotus pond refreshes travelers afflicted by the scorching sun.

O Lord, when you are present, even the dense bonds of karma quickly become slack for a being—just as the middle part of a sandalwood tree, when a peacock approaches, is instantly freed from the grip of the serpent that had entwined it.

O Jina, even when you are merely glanced upon, men are suddenly freed from hundreds of afflictions caused by fierce beings—just as cattle, when the master with his blazing splendor is seen, are quickly released by fleeing thieves.

O Jina, you are the savior of those beings who, while crossing the ocean of existence, carry you in their hearts. Or rather, it is the power of the wind inside the raft that makes it cross the water—so too, it is your grace that enables them.

O Lord, even the god of love, whose power subdued even Shiva and others, was destroyed by you in an instant. What then of the fire that was extinguished by water? Could that water not be drunk by the insatiable submarine fire?

O Master, how is it that beings who hold you in their hearts—you who are of immense majesty—cross the ocean of birth with such ease? Indeed, the power of the great is not to be questioned.

O Lord, if anger is first destroyed by you, then tell me, how can the thieves of karma remain? If even cold snow can burn blue trees in the forest, then what is impossible?

O Jina, yogis always seek you, the form of the Supreme Self, in the lotus-chamber of the heart. For what else is the seat of the pure, radiant soul but the pericarp of the lotus?

O Lord Jina, by meditating on you, beings in the cycle of existence abandon their bodies in an instant and attain the state of the Supreme Self—just as base metals, by the power of intense fire, shed their ore-nature and quickly become gold.

O Jina, if you are always contemplated within by the spiritually fortunate, how can you not destroy their body? Indeed, great souls who abide in the middle state pacify the body—such is your nature.

O Lord Jina, the wise meditate on the self with the awareness of its non-difference from you—such is your power. Even water, when contemplated as nectar, does it not remove the effects of poison?

O Lord, even opponents, free from darkness, surely approach you with the conception of you as Hari, Hara, and others. Is not a white conch shell mistaken for various colors by those with jaundiced eyes?

O Lord, at the time of your sermon, due to your presence, not only people but even the Ashoka tree becomes free from sorrow. When the sun rises, does not the whole world of living beings awaken?

O Lord, it is wonderful that a shower of celestial flowers falls everywhere, even though the flower-stalks are turned downward. Or, O Lord of sages, perhaps the bonds of the flowers naturally go downward.

It is fitting that your words are called nectar, born from the deep ocean of your heart. For having drunk them, the spiritually fortunate, filled with supreme bliss, quickly attain agelessness and immortality.

O Master, the pure celestial whisks, bowing low and then rising high, seem to declare: "Those who bow to this foremost sage are indeed of pure heart and destined for upward motion."

O Lord, you are dark-hued, with deep speech, seated on a radiant golden jeweled throne—the peacocks of the spiritually fortunate behold you with eagerness, as you thunder loudly, like a fresh rain cloud atop a golden mountain.

O passionless Lord, by the rising of your dark-hued halo, the Ashoka tree lost its own color. Indeed, who, even among the conscious, does not become passionless in your presence?

O Lord, your celestial drum, thundering in the sky, seems to announce to the three worlds: "Abandon heedlessness! Come, take refuge in this guide who leads to the city of liberation!"

O Lord, when the worlds were illumined by you, the moon with its stars lost its authority. Surely, it assumed a threefold form—as a white umbrella adorned with a pearl necklace—to serve you.

O Lord, you shine all around with three halls—made of ruby, gold, and silver—as if they are the collected mass of your splendor, majesty, and fame, filling the three worlds.

O Jina, the divine garlands of the lords of the gods, abandoning even their jeweled crowns, resort to your feet. Or perhaps, in your presence, the flowers find no delight elsewhere.

O Lord, though you are turned away from the ocean of birth, you still rescue the wise who cling to your back. It is fitting that you, like a king, are free from the results of karma—yet it is wondrous that you are devoid of karmic fruition.

O protector of beings, though you are the lord of the universe, you are beyond reach; though you are the essence of syllables, you are beyond script. O Lord, even in ignorance, knowledge shines in you somehow, as the cause of the universe's unfolding.

O Lord, the dust heaps that the wicked demon Kamatha angrily raised, filling the skies—even your shadow was not harmed by them. That wretched one only destroyed himself.

O Jina, the terrible, unbearable flood released by the demon—with roaring, mighty clouds, terrifying lightning, and heavy, dreadful torrents—was held by you. And that very flood became his own unbearable punishment.

The host of ghosts—with disheveled hair, deformed faces, hanging corpses, and fire issuing from their fearful mouths—that was sent against you, became for that demon the cause of suffering in every rebirth.

O Lord of the world, blessed are those beings who, abandoning all other duties, worship your two feet thrice daily with devotion, their bodies covered with horripilation and soft down—they are truly fortunate in this birth.

O Lord of sages, in this boundless ocean of existence, I think I have not yet come within the range of your hearing. But if I have heard your holy, purifying name, what venomous serpent of misfortune can approach me?

O Lord, I think I have not honored your pair of feet even in a previous birth—feet that are capable of granting all desires. Therefore, in this life, I have become a dwelling place for defeats, my mind crushed by afflictions.

Surely, with eyes covered by the darkness of delusion, I have never once beheld you before. Otherwise, how could these relentless misfortunes, piercing my very soul, torment me so?

O Lord, though I have heard of you, honored you, and even seen you, I have surely not held you in my heart with devotion. Therefore, O friend of beings, I have become a vessel of suffering—for actions devoid of feeling bear no fruit.

O Lord! O lover of the afflicted! O refuge! O abode of compassion and merit! O best among the self-controlled! Show mercy to me, who am bowed in devotion, and be intent on crushing my sorrows.

Having reached the refuge that is the lotus of your feet—a refuge devoid of all other support, a shelter that has subdued the enemy and is famed for its grace—I am barren of contemplation, O purifier of the world. Alas, I am undone!

O Lord worshipped by the king of gods, O knower of the essence of all things, O savior from the cycle of existence, O master of the world! Save me, O Lord, O ocean of compassion! Purify me, who am sinking today in the fearful ocean of calamities.

O Lord! If there is any fruit of the devotion constantly accumulated for your lotus feet, then, O refuge, may you alone be my master—in this world and in the next—for I have no other shelter but you.

Thus, O Lord Jina, those spiritually fortunate ones who, with concentrated minds, according to the rites, their bodies covered with thick horripilation, their gaze fixed on your pure lotus face, compose this hymn of praise—

Having enjoyed the celestial pleasures, radiant like the moon that delights the lotuses of the people's eyes, and having shed all their impurities, they quickly attain liberation.