A thousand pilgrims strain

Arm, shoulder, breast and thigh, with might and main,

To drag that sacred wain,

And scarce can draw along the enormous load.

Prone fall the frantic votaries in its road,

And, calling on the God,

Their self-devoted bodies there they lay

To pave his chariot-way.

On Jaga-Naut they call,

The ponderous Car rolls on, and crushes all.

Through blood and bones it ploughs its dreadful path.

Groans rise unheard; the dying cry,

And death and agony

Are trodden under foot by yon mad throng,

Who follow close, and thrust the deadly wheels along.