大乘莊嚴經論 心要連讀

Adorning — making the wondrous Dharma's qualities manifest and giving rise to joy

This chapter says that the wondrous Dharma of the Great Vehicle is complete in qualities. Why, then, should one still "adorn" it?

The Occasion is a doorway into the whole treatise. It first makes plain who, with what, and for whom: with the wisdom of meaning (the wisdom that penetrates the meaning of the Dharma), with stainless words and lines, for those who arouse the great mind, one adorns the supreme vehicle that the Tathāgata teaches so skillfully. Its method is five similes, and hidden within them is a path that runs from the shallow to the deep: like gold wrought into a vessel, like a flower just now in bloom, like tasting fine fare, like understanding the written word, like opening a jewel-casket — in order, they draw a person to incline in confidence, to receive the teaching, to reflect, to cultivate, and at last to realize.

To the sharpest question of all, the prose commentary answers with a mirror: reflected in a mirror, a fair substance displays a delightful form. Adorned by wisdom of meaning and stainless words and phrases, the wondrous Dharma likewise moves the hearer to rejoice and receive it. The simile concerns making the Dharma manifest and giving rise to joy; it does not establish a separate thesis of "inherent perfection" in the Dharma or the reader. And the goodness of the wondrous Dharma must further be borne through three stages of "bitter first, sweet after" — like bitter medicine that cures the illness, like serving an awe-inspiring king, like recognizing an uncut jewel — so do not turn back at the bitter part.

Now push open this doorway, and the vast ocean of meaning across the twenty-three chapters can be walked into, one step at a time.

Is this Great Vehicle really the Buddha's word? — the treatise takes the net of doubt apart, knot by knot, to your face

Someone doubts: the Great Vehicle is not what the Buddha spoke with his own mouth — so where do its qualities come from? This chapter presents the treatise’s answer to that challenge. It sets out eight causes and, one by one, puts the question back: if the Buddha saw a counterfeit of the true Dharma coming, then he — clear of eye, guardian of the Dharma, unobstructed in knowledge — how could he fail to give warning? The Listener's Vehicle and the Great Vehicle have always run together in the world; on what grounds single out this one alone and call it not the Buddha's word? A Dharma this deep and vast, which even the man of conjecture cannot believe or bring to practice — that is the very mark of its rare quality. The two vehicles each have their own road and their own fruit, and are not to be confused; while the vastness and the profundity of the Great Vehicle are precisely the true method of becoming a Buddha.

The treatise's case is closely built, and within it there is also a word of intimate counsel to the student: before a Dharma that is deep and not yet within your reach, the surest thing is not to turn away in groundless dread or slander it lightly, but to look up in faith, to leave your doubts open, and to seek understanding.

As for whether the Great Vehicle is, in the end, the Buddha's word — that case: see how the treatise sets it up and how its replies proceed.

Taking refuge is not only bowing your head to beg for shelter — it is lifting your head to recognize your home

A traveler caught in wind and rain runs to the eaves of a house to take cover — this is refuge as most people know it: seeking something to lean on. But the refuge of the great vehicle, even while sheltering from the rain, makes a vow: I too will become a house, so that every traveler under heaven has a place to take cover. So it is not merely "finding something to lean on" — it is "vowing to become, oneself, the refuge for all sentient beings." And this is to become a Buddha.

What this chapter tells is precisely why this "refuge of the great vehicle" is the most supreme. Its heart's reach is the widest (what it would deliver is all sentient beings); its vow and practice are the most robust; the fruit it attains is the most vast — a thing the other paths cannot catch up to. Hard to arouse, hard to accomplish: precisely because its weight is the heaviest. The harder it is, the greater the resolve one should set.

The treatise adds a fitting comparison: a bodhisattva who has taken refuge in the Great Vehicle is like a prince born into the royal house — though not yet enthroned, the seed of becoming a buddha is not cut off. This is the chapter's simile for one who has aroused the mind and taken refuge, not a declaration that every reader is predestined for buddhahood.

Lift your head, then, and recognize this home.

How this treatise uses “lineage” to explain the starting point of the bodhisattva path

Taking refuge is the doorway; within this treatise’s structure, lineage is the root beneath the one who has entered, meaning the spiritual capacity for awakening figured as an inner seed.

The chapter infers lineage from differences in realm, faith, practice, and fruit; then, by four qualities, it ranks bodhisattva lineage as excellent and presents innate lineage, cultivated lineage, and the marks of compassion, faith, endurance, and practice. These are claims made by the treatise and reported here without using them to classify anyone.

As to whether every being possesses this seed, there have come down from of old two teachings — the "single lineage" and the "five lineages" — each with its transmission from the ancient masters, each grounded in scripture and treatise. This edition records both faithfully and passes no verdict.

Now see how the treatise develops this account through the seed and the tree of awakening.

Arousing the mind — setting the whole bodhisattva path upon a single thought

A road of a thousand, ten thousand miles all begins from the first step. Arousing the mind is that first step: gazing up toward the highest awakening, gazing down upon beings without end — hung between the highest awakening and the widest compassion. Apart from these two, it is not the mind of awakening.

This thought has its deep and its shallow. What rises at another's urging is like borrowed fire, out at a breath; what burns up from the bottom of the heart is like one's own kindling, and keeps itself alight. And once one realizes the real and mounts the first ground, it is called the Joyful Ground — like a long-absent traveler come home again, recognizing the house that was always his: beings and myself, the Buddha-ground and myself, were never truly apart.

Most moving of all: one who truly arouses this mind is not held fast by favorable circumstances, nor turned back by adverse ones. He walks into a place of suffering as though walking into a garden — for that is the very place where his vow is done. Great compassion sits within the mind, and the moment he sees beings suffer, he suffers as if it were his own; without waiting to be urged, he acts of himself.

Now watch this single thought — how it sprouts, grows, takes up the burden of beings, and walks the whole road through.

Benefiting others and benefiting oneself turn out to be one and the same thing

Once the mind of awakening has been aroused, what comes next? This chapter answers without hesitation: go and benefit sentient beings.

But someone may ask: whom does one look after first — oneself, or others? For the bodhisattva there is no such riddle here. For in his heart he has long since seen self and other as equal — indeed, he loves and guards others even more than he loves himself; and this being so, "benefiting others" simply is "benefiting oneself," so how could they be pulled apart into two separate things?

More moving still is a single reversal: the one who seeks only his own pleasure often fails to gain it and falls instead into suffering; the bodhisattva, on the contrary, makes no reckoning for himself and single-mindedly gladdens others — and in the end the good of self and of other is fulfilled all at once, and what he gains is the greatest ease. Exchange "for myself" for "for sentient beings," and one's own share of joy is not lost — it is brought to fulfillment within the benefiting of others.

This, then, is the first step underfoot after arousing the mind. Follow this chapter, and watch how the bodhisattva walks "for the other" into "for oneself."

What the "truest real" is, and how one walks up to it in person

At dusk you glimpse a "snake" in the corner and swing wide to avoid it; step closer, and it is only a rope — the snake was never there, it was added on by a mistaken glance. Our clinging to a "self," and to this world, is for the most part just such a mis-seen snake.

Following the treatise, this chapter distinguishes reality without stating it one-sidedly as either "existent" or "non-existent," and uses adventitious dust to discuss defilement and purity. What suffers is a continuity of suffering; no separate "self" is posited as sitting through it from beginning to end. The treatise also says that saṃsāra and nirvāṇa are "not two, with not the slightest difference" with respect to no-self. 〔exposition-borrowed simile〕 The rope-and-snake image only assists in reading the removal of deluded grasping; it does not prove that the two are one identical substance.

To see through the snake and recognise the rope — this real can not only be seen clearly, it can be walked up to, step by step, in person. So follow this road that runs from "seeing clearly" all the way to "entering and realising."

Supernormal power is not a stock of wonders to show off — it is the walking-strength of compassion

Say the words "supernormal powers," and the mind runs at once to feats of the marvelous. Yet this whole chapter turns upon a single question: this power of the bodhisattva — what is it for?

There is only one answer — to carry sentient beings across. The bodhisattva's six supernormal powers are, at root, six pairs of eyes for "seeing beings clearly": knowing their birth and death, knowing the movements of their minds, knowing their former habits, knowing whether they are ripe for liberation or not — only so can the rescue be matched to the ailment. And where does this power come from? The deep meditative absorption is its root and non-conceptual knowledge is its eye — neither may be missing. So it is born bearing the seal of purity, and can never sink into a plaything of self-display. Every deed it does, likewise, falls upon relieving suffering, gathering and transforming beings, purifying lands and purifying beings.

In a word: the whole splendor of the supernormal powers rests upon this one thing — carrying sentient beings across.

Now watch how the bodhisattva takes up this power and, fearless as the lion, wades down into the deepest sea of suffering.

Maturation comes down to one word — "ripe": ripen yourself through first, and only then can you help another ripen

Fruit on the branch, given sun and rain and dew, turns slowly from green to ripe. The most down-to-earth work on the bodhisattva path is just this word, "ripe."

It falls into two halves, and the order between them matters greatly. First comes self-maturation — ripening this one fruit through: from aspiration and pure faith to compassion and endurance, nine things cultivated to the very highest grade. Why must one ripen oneself first? A lamp must be lit before it can light another; while you are still cold and still dark, you cannot kindle anyone else.

Only when ripe through does one speak of maturing sentient beings. The afflictions, once ripe, must be relinquished, like lancing a ripened abscess to let the pus out; the wholesome dharmas, once ripe, must be used, like taking cooked food and eating it — the whole art lies in this measure of relinquishing and using. Upholding it all is a mind rare in the world: the bodhisattva relinquishes self-love only for the love of others. Then, with giving, discipline, and on through wisdom — the six perfections as his hands — he hands over real benefit now and plants wholesome roots for later, ripening beings to completeness.

Ripe fruit falls of itself: it cannot be rushed, and it cannot be skipped. Now watch this one word, "ripe" — how it ripens oneself, and ripens sentient beings too.

"Becoming a buddha" — what exactly is it that becomes? This chapter gives the most refined answer.

The translation preface calls this chapter “the most subtle and wondrous.” The chapter states that the eighth, seventh, sixth, and first five consciousnesses are turned in sequence to attain the four wisdoms. The verse does not itself decide that they are one identical substance or that wisdom is innately complete.

In the chapter’s sequence, turning the eighth consciousness attains mirror wisdom; turning the seventh attains equality wisdom; turning the sixth attains observing wisdom; and turning the first five attains accomplishing wisdom. This layer reports those pairings without adding the claim that affliction itself is awakening.

These four wisdoms are then related to the Buddha’s three bodies. 〔exposition-borrowed simile〕One moon over many rivers may suggest a “one／three” relation, but this image is not cited by the treatise and is not evidence for the three bodies.

What follows shows how this chapter presents the four wisdoms and the three bodies in sequence.

Faith is like a pair of hands — stretch them out first, and the whole mountain of Dharma-treasure can be taken in

Having spoken of the far heights of awakening, this chapter suddenly turns back and, in all earnestness, names a single word: faith.

Why does faith come first? The Dharma is a mountain of treasure, and faith is that pair of hands. With hands, you walk in and carry off the jewels that fill the mountain; without them, you may stand in the very midst of it and still come away empty-handed. However fine the Dharma, without faith it has nothing to do with you.

So this chapter looks faith through and through: it has many faces — the truly received and the seemingly received, the kind another draws forth in you and the kind you set upon your own feet; it has its high and its low, deepening layer by layer as practice deepens, like the daylight turning from first dawn toward high noon. It can also be blocked — much forgetting, indolence, heedlessness, self-satisfaction are all weeds that cover over the sprout of faith, and each must be pulled up. The treatise goes further and, by four kinds of person, marks out the high and the low: the highest is the king's faith — freely issuing his decrees, wholly for the benefit of others.

The last word is the warmest: do not think yourself small. This road to Buddhahood — countless people down the ages have already walked it through; why doubt that you cannot walk it too?

For now, just stretch out these two hands.

Seeking the path is a long road, and this chapter walks it from beginning to end

Practice is like walking: one has to know where one is heading, where to seek. This is a long chapter, and all of it turns on a single word — "seek": to search out, to look for.

First one seeks the materials and the tools: seeking the Dharma, seeking the conditions and the knowledge for contemplative practice, seeking the attentions, bringing the mind into harmony. Then one goes further in, and seeks that most crucial thing, "reality": the dharmas seem to exist in truth, but they are really like an elephant conjured up by a magic-show — you plainly see it, yet it has no real substance. Having seen this, one no longer grasps them as truly existent, nor declares them wholly absent; the object is what the mind manifests, and toward it one takes neither existence nor non-existence — this is the middle way.

From this one glance that sees through, one seeks on down the whole road. The treatise says that seeds and the remaining consciousnesses are transformed into the outflow-free element. 〔exposition-borrowed simile〕 Settling muddy water only helps convey the continuity implied by "transformation"; it does not prove that what precedes and follows is one identical substance. One then seeks liberation and the unarisen. At the last it comes to rest on "practice": studying all the fields of learning through and through, nourishing the wholesome roots, spreading the benefit of beings out into its inexhaustible fine detail.

Within this one chapter, view and practice are threaded through as one. Now follow this road of "seeking," and go in and see.

The Dharma is not a treasure to hoard; it is a lamp to be lit onward, one after another

Once you have sought the Dharma, you must speak it out — this is proclaiming the Dharma.

The least profitable stinginess in the world is to hide the Dharma away. Body, life, and wealth are all things hard to get and yet not firm, and even so the bodhisattva gives them at any moment to those in suffering; how much more a thing like the Dharma, which the more you speak it the riper and clearer it grows — like taking one lamp to kindle another: my own flame is in no way lessened, and two, then a thousand, the more they are shared the brighter they shine. So the bodhisattva is not stingy, and benefits the world widely with the Dharma.

And the one who truly knows how to expound the Dharma — what is he like? This chapter numbers his many accomplishments in detail, and they come down to a single sentence: his eye rests always on "the one who is listening," never on himself. He expounds according to that person's capacity, lets him understand, seeks no name or gain for himself, and is not carried away when praised — just as a good physician prescribes to the illness. He speaks cleanly, and, still more, speaks clearly: not lazy, holding nothing back, cutting a person's doubts clean through.

Now watch how this one who proclaims the Dharma is like the sun — asking nothing in return, he only brightens the world.

Once the Dharma has been spoken out, it must in the end come down to a single word — practice.

However much Dharma one hears, if it stops at rejoicing it is still on this near shore. This chapter says the Dharma is from the first like a raft for crossing a river: use it to cross the river of the afflictions, and once the far shore is reached it should be set down. Only one who can take it up and also lay it down truly knows how to use the Dharma.

Practice does not rest on solitary, brute effort. It readies for you four supports — a good environment, good teachers and friends, good self-discipline, wholesome roots from former lives — and it sweeps away, along the road, several ailments of mind: the fear of walking the lesser path, the fear of "existence and non-existence, purity and defilement," and the doubt whether one's love for beings is excessive.

Most moving is the treatise's image of a basin of water: clear water, once muddied, has upon clearing only had its filth removed — that "clarity" was not ladled in from outside. The chapter's claim here is that the mind's nature is originally pure and adventitious dust can be removed. As for "the afflictions are awakening," the prose commentary expressly marks it as the sūtra's hidden intent, stated with respect to the nature-of-dharmas. It does not mean that active affliction itself is awakening, or that one immediate turn of thought is already realization.

So take the Dharma as a raft; once the river is crossed, set it lightly down.

From ordinary being to Buddha — what this chapter gives is a map of the whole journey

From a scattered, ordinary being to perfect Buddhahood — how far is the road, and how is it walked? This chapter answers it in full: it draws the whole path, from the foot of the mountain to the summit, one step at a time.

First, at the foot of the mountain, one lays in a full store of confidence and merit; then, by every kind of skillful means, one settles the scattered mind until it can rest in place. Next come the most perilous few stone steps just below the peak, where the grasping at "an object outside the mind, a self within the object" is peeled away, layer upon layer; peeled clean, one gazes for the first time upon the true face of the dharma-realm — this is called "the path of seeing," the ascent to the first ground. From then on he takes all sentient beings as his own self, and, circling the mountain stage after stage, climbs on until, at the very last step, he reaches the summit and becomes a Buddha. And what moves the heart most is this: however long and perilous the road, at every step beneath his feet there is a Buddha up ahead, leading the way.

Becoming a Buddha, it turns out, has steps that can be followed. Now look how this map, one step at a time, leads all the way to the ground of awakening.

The bodhisattva who gets things done always keeps "skill" walking at his side

The bodhisattva does things — the many doings of body, speech, and mind, which this chapter calls "action" (業); and when he does them he keeps a companion at his side, called "skillful means" (方便), that is, skill. In four short verses it tells the four faces of that skill.

The first is amassing: as the great earth bears up the ocean, the ranged mountains, the grasses and trees, and living beings, so the three kinds of action, bit by bit, gather all that is good and hold it up — the good is not scattered good deeds, but is heaped up thick and deep.

The second is rescuing others: to draw back from the narrow road those who wish only to save themselves, the bodhisattva is willing to endure toil and hardship through measureless eons, and that mind never turns back, never flinches.

The third is guarding oneself: to keep safe the first resolve — "to reach Buddhahood for the sake of beings" — he guards deeply against letting a mind for the lesser vehicle rise in himself, as a man guards deeply against the harms that would injure his body.

The fourth is purifying: having done it, he keeps no reckoning — "I did it, this is what I did, this is for whom I did it" — like a wild goose crossing the long sky, leaving not a single trace; and just because no trace is left, the merit is instead without bound.

To bear up, to go into hardship, to guard the mind, to grasp at nothing — this is the bodhisattva who gets things done, and that "skill" who walks beside him.

The bodhisattva does two things: the six roads by which he climbs the mountain himself, and the four hands with which he turns back to draw others up

What must be done to become a Buddha? The answer this chapter gives comes in two sets.

The first set is the six perfections — giving, discipline, patience, vigor, meditation, and wisdom. They are like six steps, running from the shallow to the deep: only when one is planted firm can the next be climbed. Cultivated to the point of purity they even "turn over" — the joy the bodhisattva takes in giving surpasses the joy of the one who receives; the bodhisattva's wisdom, like the sun blazing at noon, shines everywhere beyond compare.

The second set is the four means of gathering — giving, kind speech, beneficial action, and shared benefit, the four hands by which sentient beings are drawn in one by one. The weightiest of them is "shared benefit": the bodhisattva first does, himself, what he has told others to do — he is not one who stands on the bank and shouts, but one who leaps into the water and swims alongside you.

The six roads are for crossing oneself over; the four hands are for gathering others in. And what runs through both, from first to last, is that one heart for which "benefiting others is itself benefiting oneself."

Offering to the Tathāgata: the true offering lies in the mind, not in the thing

Set out incense, flowers, food and drink — is that what offering is? This chapter says: that is only the shallowest layer.

The treatise lays out eight kinds of offering to the Tathāgata, and a close look tells the tale: of the eight, only one — "offering by thing" — actually sets out any thing; the other seven — making offering to the Buddhas of all three times, offering with a pure mind of faith, offering to fulfill the stores of merit and wisdom, teaching sentient beings to come and plant wholesome roots along with you — all speak of the mind. The offering-substance, then, is like an outer shell, and those several layers of mind are the kernel within: the shell may be very thin, yet the kernel may be very thick. And to judge whether an offering is high or low, one looks not at how much is offered but only at whether there is the conceit of self — set down the conceit of self, offer without grasping, and though little be offered, it is like a single drop of water cast into the great sea, as vast as the Buddha's own qualities.

As for the supreme offering, the treatise answers plainly: it is that one mind which is at once faithful, deep, skillful, and able to be in harmony with the host of noble ones.

Incense, flowers, food and drink are no more than an occasion the mind borrows to show itself forth. Now watch how these "eight kinds" lift, layer by layer, the true meaning of offering.

On the path of practice, finding the right person matters more than anything else

Having said how to make offerings to the Buddha, the Offering chapter is followed at once by this question: as for the good friend (善知識, kalyāṇamitra — the true teacher and good companion), how then should one attend him?

The treatise answers first whom one ought to attend: one who has himself practiced well, who has walked this very road and come through; one who can, moreover, teach you — who truly understands and can make it plain; and one who is truly for your sake, seeking no reward, willing to accompany you all the way. Only one complete in such qualities is fit to be attended.

Once the right person is chosen, in attending him — beyond the offering of goods — what matters more is that one's whole person leans across toward him: body and mind both arrive, and one must also set down that trace of pride; if the bearing is not humble, the Dharma cannot come in.

And the eye of the whole chapter is but one line: for the sake of the Dharma, not for the sake of wealth. What is wanted is the Dharma within him, not the advantages he can give. High and low, too, are measured by one thing alone — whether one has set down the conceit of self.

Now watch how the treatise sets out this path of attending, and speaks it for you to hear.

The one mind in which the bodhisattva abides is loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity — and this mind takes root from a single word: compassion.

Where does the bodhisattva's mind abide? This chapter answers beautifully: it abides in the "four immeasurables" — giving pleasure to those who seek pleasure (loving-kindness), drawing out the suffering of those who suffer (compassion), not forsaking those who rejoice (sympathetic joy), and freeing those in affliction (equanimity). The four stand side by side, yet this chapter unfolds "compassion" alone at length, as though the living waters of the four immeasurables all well up from this single word.

Most moving of all is the picture of great compassion as a tree: compassion is the root, endurance the trunk, the deliberation of benefiting others the branch, the great vow the leaf, taking rebirth the flower, and the maturing of beings the fruit. Without the root of compassion, none of the endurance, the vow, or the fruit of delivering beings that follow could grow — the bodhisattva's whole body of practice, it turns out, puts forth its shoots from this one root of compassion. And it is by this very compassion that the bodhisattva, having seen through the suffering of birth-and-death, still refuses to walk away alone: he does not abide in nirvāṇa, nor abide in birth-and-death, but stays on, journey after journey, to see beings across the river.

Now come and watch how this tree of compassion, from a single root, grows into a whole crown of flower and fruit.

The factors of awakening — the whole set of parts that lead to awakening

The road to awakening is not walked by a single surge of zeal pressing forward, but by a whole set of methods that can be followed step by step. This chapter is exactly the "toolshed" that lays them out, one piece at a time.

It sets out from a plain word — "conscience" (慚), the mind that knows how to feel abashed; only one who has conscience is willing to turn back. The treatise raises several similes for it: conscience is like a garment that gathers no filth, like a loving mother guarding her child. From this it builds up, layer upon layer, all the way to the thirty-seven "factors of awakening" transmitted in common across Buddhism — like the seven treasures that clear the way ahead when a wheel-turning king sets out, leading the mind on toward awakening.

With the tools in hand, the chapter turns to its arguments on impermanence and the no-self of persons, then returns to self-benefit and benefit of others. The lamp-flame belongs to the treatise; waterfall and whirlpool are only expository aids. This layer reports the argument without deciding on its behalf.

Now look upon this toolshed, and how it makes ready the whole provision for going toward awakening.

A bodhisattva — what, in the end, are the good things about him?

This chapter takes stock of the bodhisattva's whole abundance of qualities. Though the headings are many, a few main threads stand out with special clarity.

A quality is precious not for how great the deed is, but for being willing to do it while it is still hard: lighting a lamp against the wind — there the true work shows. Toward sentient beings the bodhisattva is like seven kinds of closest kin: he has a loving mother's nurture, a loving father's rigor, a good teacher's instruction. And the difference between the true and the counterfeit lies only in "actually doing it": to speak a fathom is not worth practicing an inch.

The chapter further states that “only the store consciousness can be bound; no person-self can be bound,” and develops its account of knowing bondage and liberation from there. This is the treatise’s own position, reported without adjudicating every account of the person.

Now look at this whole long roster, and see how a single word — "awakening" — turns into good done for sentient beings.

The road to buddhahood, it turns out, has ten rising steps

How does the bodhisattva walk, step by step, toward buddhahood? What this chapter gives is a map of the ten grounds.

First there is a heart of compassion, then the practice of benefiting others — and the road opens. These "grounds" are at once the states in which the bodhisattva abides and a flight of steps rising one above the next: with each ground climbed, one measure of obstruction is severed and one measure of quality gained, and the mind takes up its dwelling on a higher level.

Where the sequence shows most plainly is in the several names of the ten grounds: setting out from the "Joyful," where on the first ground one sees suchness face to face, then washing away the stain of the precepts, letting the light of the Dharma shine through, burning up the obstruction of the afflictions — on to the last ground, the "Dharma-Cloud," which sheds the rain of Dharma everywhere like a great cloud. Each name is a milestone of what that one step has brought to completion.

And the way onto the grounds is nothing other than this: first believe there is a road, then honestly walk it, and thereafter penetrate and accomplish; every step set squarely upon the three words, "for the sake of beings."

Now watch these ten steps — how, one by one, they lead all the way to the ground of awakening.

Having walked the whole road, the last stop is to bow one's head before the Buddha.

The whole treatise, from the ordinary being's first arousing of the mind all the way to the ascent through the grounds and the becoming of a Buddha, has laid down a long road. Come to its end, the bodhisattva turns back around and bows in homage before the Buddha.

This chapter is the treatise’s nineteen-fold praise, sounded one after another: praise of the Buddha’s loving-kindness, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity; praise of the Buddha’s manifold supernormal powers and eloquence; praise of the eighteen qualities the Buddha alone possesses, which even the two vehicles cannot draw near to — and every verse closes with “I bow in homage.” At the last it comes home to a single term: the three bodies — dharma-body, enjoyment body, and emanation body. 〔exposition-borrowed simile〕For an initial reading, moon, moonlight, and reflected moon may suggest the three; this image is not cited by the treatise and is not evidence for the doctrine.

Having praised the nineteen qualities and gathered them into the treatise’s account of the three bodies, the whole treatise sets down its brush here: “The Treatise Adorning the Mahāyāna Scriptures, in the time of utmost purity, is now spoken to its completion.”

To bow in homage is the natural response of one who has understood.