For sinners like me, Glad Tidings.......

بِسْمِ اللّهِ الرَّحْمـَنِ الرَّحِيمِ

Following our previous discussions on Good Deeds, let us now talk about people like me, who despite the best of intentions (sometimes), end up sinning ( a lot of times). Is there any hope for us?


According to An-Nisa (4:64)

وَمَا أَرْسَلْنَا مِن رَّسُولٍ إِلاَّ لِيُطَاعَ بِإِذْنِ اللّهِ وَلَوْ أَنَّهُمْ إِذ ظَّلَمُواْ أَنفُسَهُمْ جَآؤُوكَ فَاسْتَغْفَرُواْ اللّهَ وَاسْتَغْفَرَ لَهُمُ الرَّسُولُ لَوَجَدُواْ اللّهَ تَوَّابًا رَّحِيمًا (4:64)

For We have never sent any apostle save that he should be heeded by God's leave. If, then, after having sinned against themselves, they would but come round to thee and ask God to forgive them - with the Apostle, too, praying that they be forgiven - they would assuredly find that God is an acceptor of repentance, a dispenser of grace.

And what about the following hadith:

As recorded by Imam Ahmed with the sanad of Sahih on the authority of Abdullah bin Umar (may Allah be pleased with him) and by Ibn Majah on the authority Hazrath Abu Musa Ash’ari (may Allah be pleased with him) that the Holy Prophet (salallahu alayhi wasallam) said, ‘Almighty Allah gave me the choice of either intercession or taking half my Ummah into Jannah. I took intercession for it is that which will be of more use and more needed. Do you think that my Intercession is for those who are pious Muslims? No, on the contrary it is for those who are steeped in sin and grave wrongdoing. (Ibn Majah).

Abu Dawood, Tirmizi, Ibn Habbaan, Haakim and Baihaqi narrate with Anas bin Maalik (may Allah be pleased with him), and Tirmizi, Ibn Majah, Ibn Habbaan and Haakim also narrate from Jabir bin Abdullah (may Allah be pleased with him), that the Prophet (salallahu alayhi wasallam) said, ‘My Intercession is for those in my Ummah, who have committed major sins ’(Ibn Majah).

With hope in the intercession of our beloved Prophet (salallahu alayhi wasallam), I would like to share some beautiful love-struck verses from Jami (شيخ نورالدين عبدالرحمن بن أحمد جامي) :

There are poems we hear first as sound.

A voice rises.
A refrain returns.
The heart recognizes something before the mind has arranged it.

یَا رَسُولَ اللّٰه

O Messenger of Allah.

This Persian na‘t, commonly known by its first words “Tanam Farsūda Jān Pāra”, is one of those poems. Many of us received it through the South Asian tradition of samāʿ and qawwālī. But before it is a performance, it is a state.

A worn body.
A broken soul.
A withered heart.
A sinner asking not to be forgotten.

That is the poem.

It is traditionally attributed to Mawlānā Nūr al-Dīn ʿAbd al-Raḥmān Jāmī رحمه الله, the 15th-century Persian poet, scholar, and Sufi. Encyclopaedia Iranica gives his dates as 1414–1492 and describes him as a Persian poet, scholar, and Sufi of the 15th century; Britannica calls him a Persian scholar, mystic, and poet, often regarded as one of the last great mystical poets of Iran.

Sufinama places this kalām under Jāmī and gives the five-couplet text in transliteration.

A small textual note is needed.

The line is often copied incorrectly as:

نمی گویم کی من بستم سخنداں

But the better reading is:

نمی‌گویم که من هستم سخن‌دان

I do not say that I am a master of speech.

This matters.

Words matter.

A poem of adab cannot be left to a careless copying of words. UrduWeb preserves both the mistaken form and the corrected reading, and the discussion there also notes the correction of پشیمانم، پشیمانم، پشیماں.

The Origin Story

There is a famous story told about Jāmī رحمه الله and his longing for Madīnah.

It is said that after Hajj, he intended to travel to Madīnah and recite his na‘t at the blessed resting place of the Prophet ﷺ. The governor of Makkah saw the Prophet ﷺ in a dream and was told to prevent Jāmī from entering Madīnah. Jāmī’s longing was so strong that he still tried to go. The governor saw another dream and sent men to bring him back. In the third dream, the Prophet ﷺ explained that Jāmī was not a criminal; he had written some verses and wished to recite them at the blessed grave. If he did so, the blessed hand would come out for musāfaḥah, and this would become a trial for people. Jāmī was then released and honoured.  

But here care is necessary.

The more specific cited version of this story is connected to another na‘t of Jāmī, beginning:

ز مهجوری برآمد جان عالم

ترحم یا نبی الله ترحم

Ganjoor places that poem in Jāmī’s Yūsuf u Zulaykhā, from the Haft Awrang.

So the story belongs with certainty to the devotional memory around Jāmī’s love for the Prophet ﷺ. It is often retold beside Tanam Farsūda, but the stricter textual record connects it to Z Mahjūrī Bar Āmad Jān-e ʿĀlam.

This is not a small distinction.

Love should not make us careless.
Carefulness should not make us cold.

Both are needed.

The Poem

Below is a vocalized reading text. Persian is normally not written with full vowel marks, so this is a reading aid rather than a manuscript claim.

1

تَنَمْ فَرْسُودَه، جَان‌پَارَه زِ هِجْرَان، یَا رَسُولَ اللّٰه
دِلَمْ پَژْمُرْدَه، آوَارَه زِ عِصْیَان، یَا رَسُولَ اللّٰه

Tanam farsūda, jān-pāra ze hijrān, yā Rasūl Allāh
Dilam pazhmurda, āvāra ze ʿiṣyān, yā Rasūl Allāh

My body is worn out; my soul is torn apart by separation, O Messenger of Allah.
My heart is withered and wandering because of sin, O Messenger of Allah.

The poem begins without decoration.

No claim.
No argument.
No display of scholarship.

Only need.

The body is tired. The soul is torn. The heart is not merely sad; it is āwāra — wandering. Sin does this. It makes the heart homeless inside its own chest.

2

چُونْ سُویِ مَنْ گُذَر آرِی، مَنِ مِسْکِین زِ نَادَارِی

فِدَایِ نَقْشِ نَعْلَیْنَت کُنَمْ جَان، یَا رَسُولَ اللّٰه

Chūn sū-ye man guzar ārī, man-e miskīn ze nādārī
Fidā-ye naqsh-e naʿlaynat kunam jān, yā Rasūl Allāh

Should you pass toward me, poor and helpless as I am,
I would sacrifice my life for the trace of your blessed sandals, O Messenger of Allah.

This is adab.

The lover does not say: come because I deserve.
He says: I am poor. I have nothing. Even the trace of your sandals is beyond my worth.

The image is not about leather. It is about nearness. It is about dust. It is about the humility of one who knows that love without adab becomes noise.

3

زِ کَردَهٔ خویش حَیْرَانَم، سِیَه شُد رُوزِ عِصْیَانَم
پَشِیمَانَم، پَشِیمَانَم، پَشِیمَاں، یَا رَسُولَ اللّٰه

Ze karda-ye khwesh ḥayrānam, siyah shud rūz-e ʿiṣyānam

Pashīmānam, pashīmānam, pashīmāñ, yā Rasūl Allāh

I am bewildered by what I have done; the day of my disobedience has become dark.
I am ashamed. I am ashamed. I am ashamed, O Messenger of Allah.

Repentance repeats itself.

Pashīmānam. Pashīmānam. Pashīmāñ.

Not because Allah does not hear the first time.

But because the heart does not break open all at once.

Sometimes the tongue has to return to the same word until the heart finally enters it.

4

زِ جَامِ حُبِّ تُو مَسْتَم، بِه زَنْجِیرِ تُو دِلْ بَسْتَم

نَمِی‌گُویَم کِه مَنْ هَسْتَم سُخَنْ‌دَان، یَا رَسُولَ اللّٰه

Ze jām-e ḥubb-e tū mastam, ba zanjīr-e tū dil bastam
Namī-gūyam ke man hastam sukhan-dān, yā Rasūl Allāh

I am intoxicated from the cup of your love; I have bound my heart to your chain.
I do not say that I am a master of speech, O Messenger of Allah.

This is the heart of the poem.

The poet speaks beautifully, but denies ownership of beauty.

He says: do not think this is skill.
It is love.

The true na‘t writer is always in danger. Praise can become self-display. Language can become a mirror in which the poet admires himself.

Jāmī closes that door.

I am not a master of speech.
I am bound.
I am drunk from love.
Whatever beauty appears here is not mine.

That is why the line matters.

نمی‌گویم که من هستم سخن‌دان

I do not claim to be the one who knows speech.

This is not false modesty. It is spiritual safety.

5

چُونْ بَازُویِ شَفَاعَت رَا کُشَایی بَر گُنَهْگَارَان

مَکُنْ مَحْرُوم جَامِی رَا دَر آن، یَا رَسُولَ اللّٰه

Chūn bāzū-ye shafāʿat rā kushāyī bar gunahgārān
Makun maḥrūm Jāmī rā dar ān, yā Rasūl Allāh

When you open the arm of intercession over the sinners,
Do not deprive Jāmī there, O Messenger of Allah.

The poem ends where every sinner hopes to end.

At shafāʿah.

Not at achievement.
Not at reputation.
Not at being known as a poet, scholar, reciter, teacher, or lover.

At mercy.

This is the final education of the poem. It takes the reader from longing to humility, from humility to repentance, from repentance to love, from love to hope.

The last word is not the poet’s name.

The last word is:

یَا رَسُولَ اللّٰه

What This Na‘t Teaches

It teaches that love is not a slogan.

Love wears the body down.
Love makes the tongue careful.
Love does not boast.
Love remembers sin.
Love asks for mercy.

It also teaches that language has to be purified.

A person may say beautiful religious words and still be full of himself. Jāmī’s line is a cure for that sickness:

نمی‌گویم که من هستم سخن‌دان

I do not say that I am a speaker.

This should be written over every lecture, every poem, every majlis, every post, every gathering where sacred things are spoken.

Do not use the Prophet ﷺ to decorate yourself.

Send ṣalawāt.
Learn adab.
Repent.
Ask for shafāʿah.
Become small.

That is the path.

May Allah fill our hearts with true love for His Messenger ﷺ. May He save us from empty claims. May He make our tongues truthful, our love disciplined, our repentance sincere, and our end under the shade of mercy.

اللّٰهُمَّ صَلِّ وَسَلِّمْ وَبَارِكْ عَلَىٰ سَيِّدِنَا مُحَمَّدٍ، وَعَلَىٰ آلِهِ وَصَحْبِهِ أَجْمَعِينَ.