I cannot breathe from the sweetness of my Lord,

For I know no thanks fit to offer Him, whose love is poured.

Each hair on my body is a gift from Him,

How can I give thanks for each strand, from this gift within?

Praise to the Lord, the Most Merciful and Giving,

Who brought forth from nothing His servant, living.

Who has the strength to describe His grace,

For His attributes drown in the greatness of His place.

The Creator who formed a person from the rose,

Gives them soul, wisdom, and the heart that glows.

From the back of the father, down to the final slope,

Look, for what honor has been bestowed from the unseen’s scope.

As He created you pure, be pure and bright,

For shame is to walk unclean, into the earth’s night.

Scatter the dust continually from the mirror,

For it will not be polished when tarnished, as you infer.

Were you not, at the beginning, a drop of water, a seed?

If you are a man, leave pride and let humility lead.

When one day you strive toward yourself with grace,

Do not rely on the strength of your own embrace.

Why do you not see the truth, self-worshipper of might,

When the arm moves only by His hand, in the light?

When success arrives through your effort, you see,

It is by the grace of God, not from your plea.

No one has taken the prize by age alone,

Give thanks to God, whose grace is the throne.

You stand not on your own, not even one step,

It is from His hidden aid that you take each breath, with no rep.

Were you not a mute child, full of boast?

Until one day you came from the navel’s host.

When the navel was severed, and day was torn,

He reached for his mother's breast, so forlorn.

The stranger whom the world afflicts in sorrow,

They give him water, to heal, from his own borrow.

Thus, he was nurtured in the womb, with care,

From the stomach’s tube, he has his food, aware.

The two breasts, which today are his heart's desire,

Two springs also from his nurturing fire.

By his mother’s side, comforting and dear,

Is paradise, where the breast flows with the milk so clear.

There is a tree above, nurturing the soul’s bloom,

It gives sweet fruit, a precious heirloom.

Are not the veins of the breast within the heart's space?

Then look, for the milk is the blood of the heart’s grace.

With his teeth, like a sting, he takes from the blood,

Woven in him is the love of the blood's flood.

When his arm grew strong and his teeth hard,

His nurse gently removed the breast, with a guard.

So that patience from his raw milk grew,

Until the sweet breast was forgotten too.

You too, who are on the path of repentance, like a child,

Through your patience, your sins will be forgotten, mild.