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The pageantries of mighty kings to us were shows that mattered not,
Beneath the shade of blades unsheathed in Kalima we glory sought.
Our only life was then to face the perils of Your Holy wars;
To glorify Your name we died, adorned with hallowed battle scars.
Not lust for power for our own sakes our drawn-sword’s playfulness inspired,
Nor roamed we hand-in-glove with death for worldly riches we desired.
Our people, had they set their hearts on this world’s riches or its gold,
Not idol-breaking would have gone but idols would have bought and sold.
We stood our ground like rocks when once the foe had met our phalanx dread;
Before our might the bravest quailed and, vanquished, from the battle fled.
And those who offered You affront our swift, relentless fury faced,
Their mightiest arms we set at nought, Their insolence and pride abased.
On all men’s minds we set Your seal, Your tawhid’s firm and sure impress—
The selfsame message preached our lips when swords danced high in battle’s stress.
Declare You whose fierce valor once did Khyber’s barriers overthrow?
Or whose resistless might once laid Famed Caesar’s proudest cities low?
Who smashed to dust man’s handwrought gods, those things of straw and earth and clay?
And who did unbelieving hosts to spread Your name and glory slay?
And who was it that quenched and cooled the fiery urns of fair Iran?
And in that land did once again revive the worship of Yazdan?
Among those nations, was there one who craved You as we craved and sought?
Or risked the perils of fell war that Your Divinest will be wrought?
Whose was that conquest-thirsty sword which won and held the world in fee?
And whose the Takbeer-sounding call, which wakened all the world to You?
Whose was the fateful wrath which made all idols shrink in terror just?
“There is no god but God,” they cried, as crumbling down they kissed the dust.
When worship’s ordained hour was come, and furious raged the battle’s fray,
Those men of Hijaz, staunch in You, facing Your Kaaba, bowed to pray.
Mahmood the king and slave Ayaz, in line, as equals, stood arrayed,
The lord was no more lord to slave: while both to the One Master prayed.
Slave or slave’s master, rich or poor, no sense of difference then felt,
For each a brother was to each when in Your Presence, Lord, they knelt.
And You do know we went about at sunrise or when stars did shine,
In banquet-halls of Time and Space, like goblets, filled with tawhid’s wine
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