Oh ! the son of Prophet, the saviour of men,
The sultry noon of the horrid summer,
When long back this day, your pious blood,
Fell to the soil in a ruthless way,
Haunts me like a frightening dream.

The arrow, so cruel that pierced the throat,
Of a thirsty babe who could not shriek,
The devilish hands that severed the head,
From your body, the holiest then,
Make me tearful night and day.

One could foresee through your pains,
We would learn a moral so high,
In chain would spring the countless heads,
To follow your spirit in the righteous cause,
Alas! Craven we are , could not do.

We lament your sorrow and cry so hoarse,
You might think, a creed has come,
To hold your banner in the benighted world,
To trim the evils as you did,
Alas! We are a smirch on your name.

Our talks are bold, our hearts are weak,
Our tongues are sharp, our minds are meek,
Our hands and legs are shivery all,
Make us man and give us a call,
Our hopes are shimmering in your grave.

Pangs of conscience ask me oft,
Why the flame of virtue is soft?
Why the sun of evil has its reign,?
Why our blood is cold when vice is hot.?
Are we on the brink of death,?

Summon the courage, you all the men !
Tread on the path of martyrs, the great,
Else, the Last Day will see your awful fate,
Your abode will be the dreaded Hell,
With your bones and flesh as its food.