My hands and feet will not move; my sight has turned inward so that I can no longer perceive the perishable or the imperishable. O Vitthala, give me the gift of your name, whose fame has spread beyond all measure. You alone are the giver of devotion, liberation, and all powers; therefore I have cast away grief, fear, shame, and worry. I have renounced everything and now rush toward you; come forward and grant me the gift of your grace. This ocean of worldly existence is the root of all sorrow; public opinion is a bed lined with burning coals, and the blows of the senses scorch with unbearable heat. In all three worlds your name is a tree with branches and leaves; I have climbed its trunk, clinging with the grip of faith. Says Tuka, your surrendered one: I can no longer tell self from other, and all reckoning has dissolved. I have placed the burden of my welfare upon you; grant the fearless hand to this refugee.