⦗148⦘
Let your tears pour in seamless streams, O eye of the grief-bound (1),
until the very earth is drenched by the flood that spills from my lids.

Taste, O my heart—day after day, night after night—the bitter draught of yearning and the blaze of sorrow,
until I behold the face of Ibn Taymiyyah, through whom Allah rescued me from the people of misguidance.

Yet how can I meet him now that death has come and hidden him in the soil (2), concealed from every human sight?

Alas for a world bereft of the radiance of his countenance; alas for the brothers and neighbors who mourn him!

Surely an eye that no longer hopes to see him has every right (3) to shed a crimson torrent until the Day of Gathering.

His loss has weighed upon all who dwell on earth; not one—near or far—escaped its blow.

Through him the world had been a realm of gladness, of light, of brilliance, of repose and sweet fragrance.

He was nothing short of a sign in his age; in every discipline (4) he mastered, he stood without a peer.

A leader of guidance, he called to the religion of his Lord with sincere, compassionate counsel, never betraying.

His school was whatever came from the Best of Messengers, his Companions, and the Followers who excelled in righteousness.

He brought forth sciences that left every describer bewildered, yet by them every lost soul is shown the way.

Many a false claimant approached him, seeking to dispute; he met each with perfect fairness, never aggression,
removing one doubt after another until the truth emerged in the clearest light.