My day grows old;
My sun sinks low,
A north wind, cold
And stark begins to blow;

My bones are chilled,
My soul recoils,
No matter what I will,
Turbid Samsara boils;

My fate seems sealed,
This is not the end –
Long ages have I reeled
From birth, to death, and
Birth; what would I give
To halt this hopeless round,
To blissfully believe
This is my last time in the ground;

But wait! Thus have I heard
A long, long time ago,
Of such a hope, a word,
On a breeze that westward blows;

A word containing virtue,
A word of life and light,
That transforms our karmic dues
And makes rubble golden bright;

A word that we may ride
To a shore where joy is sure,
Where Amitabha resides
In a land joyful and pure;
And now, aloud, I cry
As my sun sinks fast and low,
To the Lord of Sukhavati –
This Namo Amituofo!