This poem is in answer to a pundit of Banaras who derided Kabir for his 'low' profession, lack of learning and sacrilegious way of disregarding all orthodox practices. Kabir says that if wearing a thread around the neck is a sign of holiness, then his own house is holy, being full of thread which is put to the good purpose of making cloth. What is the use of merely reading the Vedas and chanting holy mantras if there is no realization of God? A true devotee's mind, heart and soul are constantly absorbed in the Lord.

Kabir says that after wasting his human birth in external pursuits and show of piety, the ritualist has to face the messengers of death. All his pious and formal practices will fail to help in that hour of crisis, and repeating names of the Lord at the last moment will be of no help, for during his lifetime he did nothing to realize the true Name within himself.

The Brahmins are looked upon as teachers and guides on the temporal and religious paths, and as the guardians of man's spiritual future. Kabir says, on a note of sarcasm, that for ages the Brahmins have been driving men like a herd of cows from one ritual to another, from one form of worship to another, but they have never taken them to the opposite shore of the river where the grass is always green — beyond the physical bonds and the limits of mind to the inner regions of bliss. They guide men only for the sake of money, food and gifts; they flatter the rich and mighty and stand as beggars at their doors. But a true devotee is a beggar only at the door of the Lord and begs for nothing except union with Him.

Around your neck is a sacred thread,
But there is no dearth of thread in my house —
I daily weave it into cloth.
You study Vedas and chant gayatri,
While the Lord himself
Resides in my heart.

On my tongue dwells the Lord,
In my eyes dwells the Lord,
And the Lord alone dwells in my heart.
O deluded one,
When you are questioned
At the door of death,
What avail will be
Your taking God's Name?

O pious Brahmin,
We are like cows, you the cowherd;
You are man's guardian at every birth,
But you never take us across
To graze on the banks of bliss;
What sort of guardian are you?

You are a holy Brahmin
And I, a poor weaver of Kasi —
Why ask what my knowledge is?
You are engaged in begging
From monarchs and kings,
And I, merely in the devotion
Of my Lord.

A.G., Asa, p. 482
Ham ghar sut