What is this?

(67)  Tari patha pane man chute jay

My mind keeps racing toward the way of His passage;
Gazing at His pathway eyes are fixed, my eyes are fixed.

On His account my heart, lo it's in spate;
Because of Him, abstracted I remain, oh I remain.

Today my bed, it is a bed of thorns;
As to my look, all modesty's been lost.
My garments, they're lackluster clothes;
My sorrow, where to stow, oh where to stow?

He loves so much, and yet He does not visit;
Wholly soft and hard, what is this, oh what is this!

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