With Your Hands Carve Out Your Own

The Soul Bride Shall Never Be A Widow, She Shall Never Suffer Sorrow.

The Widow Cries Out At The Door, The Light Of My Mind Has Gone Out, O My Mother, With His Death. So Cry Out, O Soul Brides Of The Husband Lord, And Dwell On The Glorious Praises Of The True Lord.

That One Plant Should Be Sown And Another Be Produced Cannot Happen; Whatever Seed Is Sown, A Plant Of That Kind Even Comes Forth.

Through True Love, She Merges With Him. She Who Does Not Know Her Husband Lord, The Architect Of Karma, Is Deluded By Falsehood She Herself Is False.

Whatever Kind Of Seed Is Sown In A Field, Prepared In Due Season, A Plant Of That Same Kind, Marked With The Peculiar Qualities Of The Seed, Springs Up In It.