India, my India, where first human eyes awoke to heavenly light,
All Asia’s holy place of pilgrimage, great Motherland of might!
World-mother, first giver to humankind of philosophy and sacred lore,
Knowledge thou gav’st to man, God-love, works, art, religion’s opened door.
India, my India, who dare call thee a thing for pity’s grace today?
Mother of wisdom, worship, works, nurse of the spirit’s inward ray!
To thy race, O India, God himself once sang the Song of Songs divine,
Upon thy dust Gouranga danced and drank God-love’s mysterious wine,
Here the Sannyasin Son of Kings lit up compassion’s deathless sun,
The youthful Yogin, Shankar, taught thy gospel: “I and He are one.”
India, my India, who dare call thee a thing for pity’s grace today?
Mother of wisdom, worship, works, nurse of the spirit’s inward ray!
Art thou not she, that India, where the Aryan Rishis chanted high
The Veda’s deep and dateless hymns and are we not their progeny?
Armed with that great tradition we shall walk the earth with heads unbowed:
O Mother, those who bear that glorious past may well be brave and proud.
India, my India, who dare call thee a thing for pity’s grace today?
Mother of wisdom, worship, works, nurse of the spirit’s inward ray!
O even with all that grandeur dwarfed or turned to bitter loss and maim,
How shall we mourn who are thy children and can vaunt thy mighty name?
Before us still there floats the ideal of those splendid days of gold”
A new world in our vision wakes, Love’s India we shall rise to mould.
India, my India, who dare call thee a thing for pity’s grace today?
Mother of wisdom, worship, works, nurse of the spirit’s inward ray!
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