On the Oneness of God

You who sit enthroned upon the word 'except,' you have swallowed both worlds in the single mouthful of 'no.' Without your being, no one escapes the prison of nothingness; you have caught us in clay, in the cell of all that is not You. Since you showed your face through the window of 'except,' both worlds have hidden their cheeks behind the veil of 'no.' You smear the face of both worlds with the clay of negation, but the 'except' sorts the pure from the dregs. The corridor of 'no' leads nowhere; if you are a traveler, set foot on the road of 'except.' In the six directions, do not seek news of a living thing, for there is nothing but a dead man's bones in this tomb of annihilation. To boast of existence is nothing but claiming partnership with God; do not take 'there is no god' to mean anything but 'all but Him is nothing.' See the water of life flowing in the channel of 'except'; take it that the face of both worlds is smeared with the clay of 'no.' You who are the very honor of the garden of existence, your beauty; and the veil over that beauty is its sheer abundance of light. Your love has thrown the whole expanse of the horizons beneath its feet; your beauty has seized the existence of both worlds and made it visible. What concealment can a beauty keep that burns through every veil, a face that grows famous precisely by being hidden? Why does this lion hearted love writhe in the dust, in an arena where the majesty of beauty has lowered its curtain? Love seized the hem of majesty with both hands of annihilation, then writhed in blood, having died, and through dying lived on. When the sun of eternal beauty draws its sword, it makes the phoenix of fortune appear in a severed head's palm. What are the two worlds? A dark cloud, and your light is like the sun shining behind the veil of mystery. So many thousand veils, yet your beauty is unveiled; your beauty is plain to see, while you stay hidden behind the curtain. The lantern is a veil for the candle's face, yet the lantern itself shines only by the candle's light. Eighteen thousand worlds, and one Creator of worlds; a hundred thousand mirrors, and one who shows them all. The viewer, with weak eyes, keeps needing some lens that will clear and brighten his sight. For the wise, the two worlds are a pair of glasses on the eye, fit to gaze upon the indescribable face of God's majesty. In your workshop the sky is a millstone, and it turns upon the water of your majesty. The ranks of intellects and the hosts of souls are the millers, and this heap of dust is the meal ground within it. To the intellect you are plainer than scent in rosewater; to the senses your face is more hidden than dye in henna. Your essence is too unbound for the intellect to prove; the negation of both worlds is the witness to your existence. Who gave such steadiness to this broad, low plain? Who raised this lofty tent of sky so high? Were it not for your power, the earth would have no firmness; were it not for your will, who would hold up the sky? The sleeping globe of earth would sit upon the wheel of heaven, and the sky's back would lie down on the dust of earth. The vault of heaven would be level with the dust, and the dust of earth would rise as a haze on the face of the air. Your act is substance and accident, intellect, soul, and nature; your word is proof and ruling, argument and guidance. The originator is brought into being by you, the new made eternal by you; by you the necessary becomes contingent, and existence passes into nothing. You are free of all forms, yet the form of all forms; free of any motive, while you are the purpose of all creation. O Source of sources, O Cause of causes, you are the beginning of all, and you are their end as well. Apart from your perfect essence, to whom belongs the kingdom of existence? Apart from your all encompassing knowledge, to whom belongs the verdict in judgment? You are with no one, yet no one is apart from you; you are in no place, yet no place is empty of you. The being of others only seems to be, and is not complete; your being is the true being, though it looks like nonbeing. The stone that falls from the mountaintop to the ground, the dust that rises into the air from underfoot, every speck that gleams in the sun's ray, every drop that parts longingly from the cloud, the lightning that leaps from the cloud's dark vein, the cloud that weeps even as the lightning laughs, the branch that sways in dance from the wind's breath, the bird that the leaf sets singing as the breeze stirs, every bud that gasps from a tight breath, every fresh blossom that opens at the slap of the morning wind, the face whose color shatters as it pales, the hair whose value grows the more it is loosened and tousled, the water in its flowing and the wind in its motion, the stone in its weight and the wave in its swimming, all of these have thanks for your bounty on their tongues; all of these turn their heads toward you in prayer. No, more than that: they are all your gratitude and your praise; they are all your hymn, your eulogy, your acclaim. Whatever signals the glorifying of the Giver is praise, be it substance or accident, sound or voice. Meaning is what guides every word to its purpose; the ear knows the word only for the sake of the meaning. Since whatever exists is a ray of the bounty of your essence, every existing thing is a guide for the mind toward you. What standing have we to offer you praise and thanks? It is fitting only that you yourself praise yourself. Yet it is through our tongues that you have offered to yourself all this gratitude poured out from earth to sky. A stone laying its head on the ground in thanks if it falls from the mountain, a leaf bowing in thanks borne on the breeze. Your command is obeyed, your order is heeded: the sea in its surge and the mountain in its echo. By you the heavens move and the earth stays still; by you the moon is in its furnace of fire and the sun in its blaze. By you the ant toils in the soil and finds its grain; by you the worm grazes within the stone. By you the seed in the womb draws its allotted sustenance; by you the grain sprouts in the cradle of the soil. In the green wood you grant a shroud to the dead body; in the dry earth you grant food to the living. The dew lays the rose petal like linen under the moonlight, its soft pillow and cushion being your protection. From the moving body you put wool into a cap; from the budding bush you put cotton into a cloak. In the poison bearing thorn you place a spring of honey, and then in that honey, by your grace, you place a cure. In the leaf and fruit of the green herb to the withered plant, from you comes healing for every pain, a remedy for every ache. O reviver of bones when they have crumbled to dust, O creator of souls when they have scattered like motes. O you who set the soul in motion when it has gone still, O you who renew the body when it has decayed. O ever existing one, eternal without end, O abiding one, lasting forever without passing away. No leaf has fallen, no seed has grown, but its knowledge is held in the treasuries of your unseen. Your knowledge encompasses all things, and that is the divine measure; it is before the existence of all, and that is the divine decree. We have no one to trust but your mercy; we have no refuge to seek but your threshold. We are servants, and far, far be it from us to defy your will; no refuge but at your door, none but you, and no, none but you. You are the Giver and I am the weak servant; you are the sun and I am a scattered mote of dust. If you call me, you are the doer of whatever you will; if you drive me away, you are powerful over whatever you wish. Yet since your mercy is vast, O my Lord, and since the bounty of your grace is general everywhere, if you show me mercy, it is by your grace, without anything owed; and if you turn me away, then I am the one who deserves it. My Lord, by your grace, forgive my sins; my Lord, by your kindness, pardon my faults. O intercessor whose pleas are accepted, best of intercessors, the helper honored with victory and brotherhood.