Grinding

Dispassion's mill, with earnest mind,
Lo, here grind I, —
While for a handle faith I find
To turn it by.

A handful of past deeds I deem
Grist for the mill,
And grind in the one Soul supreme
My good or ill.

All outward form to dust is ground,
All eyes can see,
For 'tis the Lord himself, I've found,
Who grinds for me.

Strange that this god should come and sit.
His servant nigh;
For I've had nought to do with it,
Says Janabai.