The very purpose of incarnation was this: to destroy demons and to save the devoted. Victory to you, O cosmic form; I wave the lamp of this body before you, Father. Taking on a vast form, you then become small; you appear to each according to their faith. To demons you seemed a terrifying lion; to Death you were the great destroyer; to Yashoda, a tiny infant. No one can know your infinite measure; whether you are with form or formless remains beyond certainty. The Vedas spread themselves across eighteen branches but cannot capture you, while you tend the cattle of the cowherd folk. Greatest among the thirty-three crore gods, your feet touch the netherworld while your crown escapes even heaven's gaze. You swallowed fourteen worlds yet your belly was not full, but you were satisfied eating the leftovers of a cowherd boy. Says Tukayabandhu, the Vedas grew weary and Shesha's thousand tongues tired in your praise. Without devotion, no cleverness prevails; protect this one who has come to your shelter.