Classic Poem

Lord of the helpless, this is now Thine hour.
Saviour of sinners, remembering Thy promise, my ruined state restore.
My childhood I squandered in playing: my youth was drunken with the wine of wickedness.
Grown old, understanding came to me: I am sore troubled, therefore have I called.
Sons, wife, and brethren forsook: my skin grew wrinkled.
My ears have lost their hearing, the strength of my feet is gone: my eyes stream with water.
My hair is grizzled, the breath in my throat is choked with phlegm, I find no rest by day or night.
The thirst of illusion and desire leave me not, both vex me sore.
Now to rid me from their troubling, there is none other mighty to save.
Sur knows the Lord Syama as the ocean of mercy: whatever help is given must come from Thee.